LIBRARY 

* 
or  THR. 

UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 

Received 
Accessions  No.  ^  **  ^  */*)     Shell 


PLAYS    AND    POEMS 


BY 


GEORGE    H.  BOKER. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 


VOL..    I. 


0?    TH 

UNIYBI 


THIRD    EDITION. 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT   &    CO. 
1883 


V. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

GEORGE   II.  BOKER, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Copyright,  188;',,  by  GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


or 


PLAYS. 

r   e 
CALAYNOS:     A  TRAGEDY, l 

ANNE  BOLEYN :     A  TRAGEDY,       .  • 115 

LEONOR  DE  GUZMAN :     A  TRAGEDY, 237 

FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI:   A  TRAGEDY,      .' 349 


C  A  L  A  Y .  N  0  S  : 

A  TRAGEDY. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


CALATNOS A  wealthy  nobleman. 

DON  Luis, His  friend. 

DON  MIGUEL,  ) 

> Gentlemen  of  Seville 

DON  LOPEZ,       ) 

OLIVER, Calaynos'  secretary. 

SOTO, Don  Luis'  servant. 

FRIAR  GIL. 

BALTASAR,    ) 

>      Calaynos'  servants. 

DONA  ALDA, Wife  to  Calaynos. 

MARTINA, Her  maid. 

Four  Usurers,  a  Forester,  Servants,  $c. 
SCENE,  Calaynos'  Castle,  Seville,  and  the  neighborhood. 


PROLOGUE. 


LOOK  not,  grave  critic,  for  perfection  here  ; 

No  gods  and  goddesses  shall  move  your  ear  ; 

My  little  stage  mere  men  and  women  fill, — 

All  have  some  good  to  love,  to  hate  some  ill ; 

A  hundred  springs  of  action  move  each  mind, 

And  in  their  mean  the  character  you  '11  find. 

Interests  and  feelings,  base  and  good,  have  they  ; 

Some  draw  towards  heaven,  and  some  —  the  other  way 

Arcadian  virtue  and  Arcadian  crime, 

In  abstract  form,  may  crowd  the  Epic  clime  ; 

But  'tis  the  Drama's  task  the  world  to  show, 

Where  bad  and  good  alternate  gloom  or  glow  — 

Where  in  each  mind  are  various  passions  fixed  ; 

Virtue  with  vice,  and  vice  with  virtue  mixed. 

Some  lean  to  virtue,  some  to  vice  give  way  ; 

But  neither  bent  has  undivided  sway. 

Our  plot  turns  on  the  loathing  which  they  feel, 

Who  draw  their  spotless  race  from  proud  Castile, 

For  those  whose  lineage  bears  the  faintest  stain 


VIII  PROLOGUE. 

Of  the  hot  blood  which  fires  the  Moorish  vein. 

No  time  can  reconcile,  no  deed  abate, 

For  that  one  taint,  the  haughty  Spaniard's  hate  : 

As  the  sound  man  the  loathsome  leper  shuns, 

So  pass  Castilians  by  Granada's  sons. 

This  is  the  key  which  gives  our  plot  to  view  — 

Turn  o'er  the  leaf,  the  way  is  clear  —  adieu  I 


CALAYNOS. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I.     TAg  Grficrf  JJaM  in  CALAYNOS'  <7as£Ze.    .Enter  PEDRO 
awe?  BALTASAR,  carrying  bundles. 

Pedro.  I  LIKE  not  this  journey  to  Seville. 

Baltasar.  0,  you  like  nothing  that  savors  of  gen 
tility. 

Ped.  How  can  I  like  it  ?  I  tell  you  this  genteel 
savor  is  deadly.  I;d  as  soon  die  by  sprats  as  by 
turbot.  I've  a  rhyme  in  my  head. 

Bait.  And  a  rind  over  that  :  what  is  it  ? 

Ped.  "  When  a  Galaynos  shall  go  to  Seville, 

Then  sure  that  Galaynos  shall  go  to  ill" 

My  grandam  taught  me  that.  She  could  read, 
and  was  a  great  diviner,  with  a  beard  that  would 
make  two  of  yours.  She  told  fortunes  by  the  way 
a  cat  jumped,  or  a  sparrow  flew  ;  and  as  often  hit 
the  truth  as  the  wisest  of  your  scholars.  If  she  hit 
it  not,  then  was  not  the  thing  fore-ordered  ;  and  she 
left  that  for  the  schoolmen  to  wrangle  about.  Why 
(iocs  my  lord  go,  Baltasar  ? 

Bait.  To  do  homage  for  his  lands,  as  all  vassals 
must.  The  king  granted  his  ancestors  lands  ;  and 

VOL.  i.  1 


2  CALAYNOS. 

iny  lord  must  acknowledge  the  king's  right  and  sov 
ereignty,  as  he  holds  the  land  from  his  forefathers. 

Fed.  1  know  nothing  of  his  aunt's  sisters  and  his 
four  fathers.  If  he  had  them,  then  was  not  his  mother 
an  honest  woman.  How  many  people  go  to  the 
making  of  your  one  great  lord  !  Now,  I  was  turned 
out  indifferent  well ;  and,  as  I  hope  for  grace,  1  had 
but  one  father,  Ilaroun  the  Falconer,  and  no  lands. 
Mayhap,  some  day,  the  king  will  take  back  his  lands. 
Then  what  use  are  my  lord's  four  fathers,  more  than 
my  one  ? 

Ball.  'T  would  pose  him  to  do  that. 

Peel.  Here 's  another  wise  thing !  Is  that  a  king's 
bounty  ?  My  lord  says,  "  Sir  king,  I'll  keep  what 's 
my  own  most  faithfully."  Says  the  king,  "  You  may 
keep  what's  not  mine."  "Thank  you  most  hum 
bly,  for  nothing,"  says  my  lord ;  and  so  they  part. 
That 's  worth  a  journey  to  hear  !  Why,  a  fool  can 
see  through  it. 

Bait.  So  I  see. 

Ped.  If  you  see,  you  are  a  fool,  and  fell  in  a  fool's 
trap. 

Bait.  So  I  see  again,  I  fell  in  a  fool's  trag.  Take 
up  your  traps,  good  fool,  and  be  off;  for  here  comes 
my  lord.  [Exeunt  with  their  bundles.] 

(  Enter  CALAYNOS  and  DONA  ALDA.) 

DonaAlda.  Nay,  dear  Calaynos,  go  not  hence  to-day. 
Since  morn,  the  clouds  have  hugged  the  hidden  tops 
Of  the  rude  peaks  that  gird  our  mountain  home ; 
Nor  could  the  fiercest  northern  blasts  shake  off 
Their  close  embrace.     But  now,  in  one  huge  mass, 
The  sluggish  vapors  down  the  mountains'  sides 


CALAYNOS.  3 

Roll  like  an  inundation.     Well  thou  know'st 
That  signs  like  these  portend  a  coming  storm  : 
Therefore,  until  the  storm  is  past,  delay ; 
For  nothing  urges  this  immediate  haste. 

Calaynos.  To  please  thee,  Alda,  I  '11  remain  to-day, 
But,  for  a  mountain  maiden,  thou  hast  grown 
Strangely  afraid  of  gentle  summer  showers ; 
Perchance  thy  love  exaggerates  the  fear. 
Thou  ;rt  not  thus  chary  to  expose  thyself 
Even  to  the  blasts  which  chilling  winter  blows. 

Dona  A.  If  not  to-day,  why  go  to-morrow  morn  ? 
Or  why  next  day  ?    Or  why  go'st  thou  at  all  ? 
If  thou  wilt  go,  then  let  me  go  with  thee. 
An  hour,  arid  I  '11  be  ready  :  I  shall  need 
But  scanty  preparation  to  set  forth. 

Gal.  Thou  hast  forgotten.     But  a  moment  since, 
Thy  fear  was  brewing  a  fast-gathering  storm  ; 
Which  thou,  in  fancy,  on  the  mountains  saw'st 
Resting  its  threatening  front.     Alda,  I  see 
That  't  is  thy  fond  intent  to  win  my  mind 
From  what  I  must  perform.     Long  since  in  death 
My  father  closed  his  eyes  ;  yet  ancient  rites, 
Which  seigniors  owe  their  liege,  by  me  unmarked, 
Their  term  of  grace  have  passed.    But  now  the  king?, 
By  stiff  set  phrase  of  law,  allegiance  claims, 
And  homage  due  demands. 

Dona  A.  Far  be  it  from  me 

To  counsel  breach  of  law.     Nay,  go  thou  must ; 
But  why  not  I  with  thee  ?     Shall  I  thus  pine, 
Shut,  like  a  cloistered  nun,  in  these  dark  walls, 
Whilst  thou  with  retinue  and  pomp  of  power 
Seville  mak'st  wonder  ?  —  Beautiful  Seville  ! 
Of  which  I  've  dreamed,  until  I  saw  its  towers 


4  CALAYNOS. 

In  every  cloud  that  hid  the  setting  sun ; 
Saw  its  long  trains  of  youths  and  maidens  i'air 
Sweep,  like  a  sunlit  stream,  along  the  streets ; 
Saw  its  cathedrals  vast,  its  palaces, 
Its  marts  o'erladen  with  the  Indies'  spoils, 
Its  galleys  rocking  at  the  crowded  quays  ; 
Heard  its  loud  hum  by  day,  its  airs  by  night 
Struck  from  guitars,  that  guide  the  busy  feet 
Of  rosy  youth  across  the  springing  ground. 
Methinks  the  moon  shines  brighter  on  Seville, 
And  every  star  looks  larger  for  mere  joy  ! 
And  then,  Martina  — 

Cal.  Ah  !  Martina  ?  —  so. 

Dona  A.  But,  dear  Calaynos,  thou  'It  not  blame  the 

girl: 

She  in  Seville  was  born  ;  her  youthful  days, 
\\rhen  the  heart  easiest  takes  impress  of  joy, 
Were  in  Seville  all  past.     Martina  says 
That  'mong  the  ladies  there  none  could  o'ertop 
In  state  or  retinue,  or  worship  paid 
By  all  the  glittering  throng  that  girds  the  throne, 
The  bride  of  great  Calaynos. 

Cal.  Alda,  cease : 

Thou'rt   pleading    'gainst   thyself:    nor   dost   thou 

know 

How  frail  the  fabric  of  the  dream- wove  vision, 
When  cunning  Fancy  plies  her  golden  hand. 

Dona  A.  What  meanest  thou  ? 

Oal.  Martina  told  but  half: 

Or  did  she  tell  how  Sloth  and  Beggary, 
Closely  attended  by  their  handmaid  Vice, 
Stare,  with  lack-lustre  and  ferocious  eyes, 
Into  the  porch  of  every  palace-gate  ? 


CALAYNOS.  5 

How  Want  creeps  forth  at  night  with  tottering  pace, 
And  'gainst  the  windows  of  the  revellers 
Flattens  its  pinched  and  wasted  features  out, 
Cursing  the  feasts  for  which  one  half  the  world 
Labors  unpaid  ?     And,  Alda,  did  she  tell 
Of  marketable  crime,  of  sin  for  sale  ? 
Of  multitudes  neck-deep  in  ignorance, 
Toiling  with  murmurs  'neath  a  servile  yoke, 
Checked  and  o'erawed  by  bayonet  and  axe  ? 
How  they  who  bend  to  power,  and  lap  its  milk, 
Are  fickler  and  more  dangerous  far  than  they 
Who  honestly  defy  it  ?     How  jealousy 
Consumes  their  hearts  who  most  caress  and  woo  it  ? 
Know'st  thou  the  slippery  falsehoods  of  the  Court, 
Where  every  step  is  on  a  quaking  bog, 
Where  men  spend  lives  on  hopes  and  promises, 
And  pine  on  smiles,  arid  starve  on  smooth-told  lies  ? 
Thou  know'st  not  this  ;  nor  shall  thy  rustic  mind, 
Pure  as  tl^e  Guadalquiver,  ere  it  flows 
Past  the  foul  sluices  that  Seville  outpours, 
Know  aught  of  it. 

Dona  A,  If  thou  wilt  have  it  so, 

I  needs  must  stay.     But  I  shall  count  the  hours, 
And  chide  along  the  slow-paced  summer  days  : 
For  thou  art  all  with  whom  I  dare  to  mate, — 
A  lonely  queen,  without  a  court  or  friend. 
And,  losing  thee,  thou  leav'st  me  with  these  walls ; 
Whose  forms  I  '11  hate,  because  they  rise  between 
Thee  and  myself.     Ah  !  it  is  very  sad 
To  be  shut  up,  for  days  and  days  together, 
With  these  old  portraits  of  thy  ancestors  — 
That   look   like    Moors,    though   they   be    Christian 


G  CALAYNOS. 

All    mailed    and    helmed,    whose   knit   and   warlike 

brows 

Beneath  their  casques  send  forth  a  settled  scowl, 
Darkening1  the  hull ;  or  see,  like  shadows,  come 
The  old  retainers,  by  my  presence  awed, 
To  beg  some  leave  they  need  not  have  besought. 
What  gloomy  state  I     Martina  calls  me  Proserpine. 

Cal.  Again  Martina  !     Love,  1  fear  thy  maid 
Has  put  these  vagrant  fancies  in  thy  head. 
I  never  liked  her  bold,  pert,  city  modes : 
With  upturned  nose  she  treads  the  castle  floors, 
As  if  she  thought  the  very  air  might  breed 
Some  loathsome  plague.     Then  at  our  festivals  — 
Time-worn,  though  quaint  and  homely  they  may  be  — 
A  supercilious  smile  comes  o'er  her  face  ; 
As  if  she,  fallen  from  paradise,  perforce 
Endured  the  antics  of  rude  savages. 
I  like  not  that  her  busy  tongue  should  stuff 
Thy  open  ears,  who  'rt  ever  ripe  for  change, 
With  all  the  worn-out  tinsel  of  a  town  ; 
And  breed  in  thee  a  discontent  for  state 
Which  many  a  queen  might  pine  with  envy  for. 

Dona  A.  Calaynos,  thou  dost  rate  my  girl  too  hard. 
I  wonder  not  that  she,  a  city  maid, 
Should  sometimes  long  for  the  more  joyous  scenes 
With  which  her  memory  mocks  our  quiet  life. 
Cal.  Well,  let  her  go  —  she  is  uo  slave  of  mine. 
Dona  A.  Her  love  for  me  has  forged  a  stronger 

chain  — 
Cal.  Her  love  for  thee  I      Nay,  Alda.  there  are 

those 

Who  love  to  live  where  they  may  scold  and  frown, 
And  toss  their  heads  at  everything  they  see : 


CALAYNOS.  • 

So,  by  affected  knowledge,  seem  above 

All  the  poor  fools  that  round  them  wondering  crowd. 

Such  is  thy  maid. 

Dona  A.  Calaynos,  truce  to  this. 

Martina  loves  me  ;  shall  I  throw  her  off? 

Gal.  I  do  not  urge  it.     But  thou  'rt  lately  grown 
Strangely  ill-humored  with  thy  dwelling-place, 
And  vexed  and  discontented  with  thyself. 
Come  to  the  casement ;  look  from  these  huge  walls, 
Whose  massive  strength  has  held  a  king  at  bay, 
Down  on  the  ripening  fields  of  yellow  grain ; 
Let  thy  eyes  roam  o'er  swarming  villages, 
Busy  with  life  and  filled  with  happy  hearts, 
Far  to  the  hills  that,  with  their  smoky  heads, 
Hem  in  the  view  and  guard  our  favored  vale. 
Round  this  domain  the  proudest  bird  of  air 
Could  scarcely  circle  with  an  untired  wing  ;  — 
All  this  is  thine.     0,  what  a  field  for  good 
Lies  here  outspread  before  thee  !     Life  employed 
In  ministration  to  this  grateful  land, 
Would  win  for  thee  a  place  beside  the  saints. 

Dona  A.  Have  I  not  ever  given,  at  morn  and  eve, 
To  all  the  ragged  band  that  throngs  our  gate  ? 

Gal.  This  is  but  half  the  task  of  charity. 
Seek  out  the  needy,  cheer  the  wretched  mind, 
Urge  on  the  slothful,  pour  thy  spirit's  balm 
On  wounds  which  time  has  fretted  to  the  quick  ; 
Counsel  the  weak,  and  make  the  strong  more  strong  : 
The  soul  has  urgent  need  for  faith  and  hope, 
More  pressing  and  immediate  than  the  wants 
The  choking  sailor  feels  upon  the  wreck. 

Dona  A.  Why,   now,   my  lord,   thou  'dst  make  a 
nun  of  me  — 


8  CALAYXOS. 

One  of  those  maids  of  black-robed  charity, 
Who  sometimes  hither  come,  with  solemn  step, 
To  ask  my  bounty.     Convents  are  there  not, 
By  thee  endowed,  to  feed  these  starving  souls  ? 

Cal.  Yes  ;  but  in  works  of  good  there  cannot  be 
Too  many  hands  ;  the  task  is  ne'er  o'erdone. 
Alda,  my  grave  discourse  fatigues  thy  ear.  — 
Well,  I  must  leave  thee  to  prepare  my  train ; 
My  home-bred  knaves  are  slack  at  setting  forth, 
And  I  must  urge  them.     Farewell,  love  ! 

Dona  A.  Farewell  !        [Exit  CALAYNOS.] 

Tli us  comes  he  ever  with  that  thoughtful  brow  ; 
Thus  goes  he  ever  with  that  calm,  cold  mien  ; 
Thus  would  he  ever  be,  thus  passionless, 
If  all  the  world  were  hissing  in  his  face  ! 
More  like  a  father  than  a  husband  he  — 
0  !  how  could  love  for  me  usurp  abode 
In  such  a  heart !     Martina,  are  you  there  ? 

(Enter  MARTINA.) 

Martina.  My  lady,  did  you  call  ? 

Dona  A.  Come  hither,  girl. 

0,  what  a  sermon  has  been  preached  to  mo  1 

Mar.  On  what  ?  by  whom  ? 

Dona  A.  By  whom  but  by  my  lord  ? 

And  what  the  subject,  think  you,  of  his  speech  ? 

Mar.  On  the  regeneration  of  the  world  ; 
Taking  his  text  from  Plato  :  quoting  large, 
In  Greek  and  Hebrew,  to  make  clear  the  fact 
That  two  and  two  make  four.     Good  Lord  !  they  sa^ 
He  talks  the  Cura  out  of  countenance  ; 
And  so  comes  down  upon  the  good  man's  head, 
With  hints  of  things  above  his  scope  of  thought, 


CALAYNOS.  9 

That  he,  both  night  and  morning,  prays  kind  Heaven 
To  keep  your  lord  from  utter  heresy. 

Dona  A.  You  have  shot  wide  the  mark  ;  for  charity 
Was  all  he  taught. 

Mar.  Ho  !  ho  I  he  'd  have  you  mount, 

Like  a  mad  nun,  upon  a  sumpter  mule, 
And  ride  the  country  down,  to  vex  the  sick 
With  nauseous  draughts  ;  or  have  you  thrust  your 

face 

In  the  aifairs  of  every  poor,  proud  man  ; 
So  would  you  gain  wry  mouths  for  recompense, 
Or  haughty  curses. 

Dona  A.  Peace,  you  rattlepate  ! 

My  lord  but  thinks  of  benefits  to  man ; 
His  every  wish  and  act  inclines  to  good. 
And  sometimes,  in  the  dead  and  hush  of  night, 
When  evil  thoughts  dare  scarcely  walk  abroad  — 
When  loneliness  and  fear  half  play  the  part 
Of  humble  holiness,  and  force  the  heart, 
Despite  its  wicked  bent,  to  virtuous  plans  — 
Some  random  word,  which  he,  in  passing,  dropped 
On  the  light  fallow  of  my  wavering  mind, 
Springs  up  and  blossoms,  with  a  promise  fair; 
But  with  the  morning  dew  dries  up  the  fruit, 
And  I  laugh  down,  as  weak  and  childish  fright, 
What,  'chance,  an  angel  whispered  in  my  ear. 

Mar.  Dear  madam,  you  have  grown  as  grave  and 

sad 

As  your  sage  lord,  by  pondering  o'er  such  things  : 
I  prithee,  drive  them  out  with  gayer  thoughts  ; 
Or  all  within  the  castle  may  become 
A  band  of  nuns  and  sourest  anchorites. 


1C  CALAYNOS. 

Dona  A.  Yet  there  is  much  of  moment  in  these 

things, 
Could  we,  of  fickle  purpose,  deem  them  so. 

Mar.  Lady,  I  heard  an  old  physician  say 
That  melancholy  is  the  chiefest  spring 
Of  raving  madness.     Dwell  not  on  such  thoughts. 

Dona  A.  And  would  you  rob  me  of  my  very  thoughts, 
The  only  things  I  have  to  wile  the  time  ? 
What  can  I  do,  but  think,  and  think,  and  think, 
[n  this  unvarying  castle  ? 

Mar.  There  it  is  ! 

Oould  you  but  see  Seville  in  all  its  pomp, 
As  I  have  seen  it,  when  the  Court  is  there ! 
Could  you  but  see  our  king  ride  through  the  gate, 
Decked  like  the  east  when  morn  first  opes  her  eye  ; 
Hear  the  loud  flourishes  of  trump  and  drum, 
The  glad  huzzas,  the  rattling  musketry, 
The  pealing  bells,  the  thundering  cannon-shots  ; 
See  the  great  ships,  the  ocean's  swans,  bedecked 
With  silken  banners,  of  all  shapes  and  dyes ; 
The  courtiers  see,  the  proudest  stars  of  Spain, 
In  one  grand  constellation  sweep  along ; 
Then  think  that  you,  the  brightest  star  of  all, 
Might  blot  them  half  with  your  superior  light !  — 
Madam,  my  lord  is  wise  to  keep  you  here, 
In  total  ignorance  of  your  rank  and  power  ; 
Once  knowing  these,  and  gaining  but  your  due, 
'T  would  stretch  his  arm  to  keep  you  from  your  rights. 

Dona  A.  But  he  has  no  desire  for  this  gay  court. 

Mar.  He  !  why,  to  him  the  gay  are  butterflies, 
Flitting  around  a  light  of  which  they  die. 
lie  looks  on  pleasure  as  a  kind  of  sin  ; 
Calls  pastime  waste-time.     Each  to  his  trade,  say  I. 


CALAYNOS.  11 

I  heard  a  man,  who  spent  a  mortal  life 

In  hoarding  up  all  kinds  of  stones  and  ores, 

Call  one,  who  spitted  flies  upon  a  pin, 

A  fool,  to  pass  his  precious  lifetime  thus ! 

What  might  delight  you,  lady,  may  not  him  ; 

And  yet  your  pleasures  argue  you  no  fool, 

Nor  his  grave  brows  prove  a  philosopher. 

Dona  A.  Stop,  malpert  girl !  you  7re  trenching  on 

my  love  ; 

Your  glibly-flowing  tongue  must  not  presume 
Too  far  upon  the  license  I  allow. 
Thus  every  day,  of  late,  I  've  caught  you  up, 
About  to  strike  a  side-blow  at  my  lord. 

Mar.  Pardon  me,  madam,  if  I  went  too  far. 
Of  late  my  silly  brain  has  been  perplexed 
With  a  great  problem,  which  I  cannot  solve. 
Thus  runs  the  question  :  Who  are  wise,  who  fools  ? 
The  man  with  heavy  brows  and  solemn  thoughts 
Looks  on  the  gay  as  blanks  in  fortune's  wheel ; 
But  then  the  fool,  laughs  in  his  sapient  face. 
At  this  the  sage  flies  in  a  windy  rage, 
And  calls  hard  names,  and  works  his  angry  liver 
To  bilious  fits,  which  end  the  good  man's  days ; 
When  laughs  the  ribald  jester  more  and  .more. 
Now,  which  is  wiser  ?     He  who  frowns  and  scolds, 
And  views  sweet  nature  in  a  sallow  light ; 
Or  he  who  takes  what  pleasure  comes  to  hand, 
Gleaning  some  honey  from  the  bitterest  flowers, 
And,  when  death  scowls,  smiles  in  his  hideous  face  ? 
Can  you  resolve  ? 

Dona  A.  Not  I;  philosopher. 

Your  gentle  education  has  nigh  spoiled 
A  most  complete,  well-mannered  waiting-maid. 


12 


CALAYNOS. 


But  there  walks  Oliver,  in  sober  thought ; 
Call  him  ;  perchance  he  can  resolve  your  doubts. 
Mar.  Yes,  there  he  goes  — just  see  him,  mistress 

dear ! — 

Backward  and  forward,  like  a  weaver's  shuttle, 
Spinning  some  web  of  wisdom  most  divine, 
I  warrant  you.     Observe  his  solemn  brows, 
His  monk-like  gait,  his  cap  without  a  plume, 
His  stiff"  and  formal  clothes,  sans  tag  or  braid. 
There  is  a  nursling  of  this  house  of  learning  !  — 
A  man  all  head,  without  a  heart  or  sense. 
Once  I  made  love  to  him,  for  lack  of  work, 
And  got  a  frown  for  all  my  tenderness  ; 
Therefore  I  hate  him  !     I  can  pardon  one 
Who  felt  affection,  should  he  turn  to  hate  ; 
But  never  one  who  slips  my  favors  by. 
Shall  I  address  him  ? 

Dona  A.  If  it  pleases  you. 

Mar.  Ho,  Oliver  1  ho,  sage!  a  mortal  calls  — 
A  mortal  wandering  in  dark  error's  path  — 
For  light  and  succor  ! 

(Enter  OLIVER.) 

Oliver.  Did  you  call  me,  lady  ? 

Dona  A.  Martina  called  you. 

OH-  Yes,  I  know  her  voice. 

I  thought  she  called  for  you  ;  her  notes  are  pitched 
Some  octaves  higher  than  your  ladyship's, 
And  further  heard. 

Dona  A .  Nay,  you  two  jar  at  once, 

\Vhon  brought  in  contact.   Well,  you  must  e'en  strike 
Your  angry  blows  without  a  witness  near.        [Exit.} 


CALAYNOS.  13 

Mar.  So,  then,  you  think  my  voice  is  over  shrill 
For  your  soft  ears,  attuned  to  Plato's  spheres  ! 

Oli.  Why  did  you  call  so  loud,  I  walking  near  ? 

Mar.  You  near !      I  thought  you  half  way  up  to 

heaven : 

How  can  a  man  be  where  his  mind  is  not  ? 
Wherein  consists  this  thing  which  you  call  I  — 
In  your  gross  flesh,  or  in  your  heaven-born  spirit  ? 

Oli.  Strive  not  to  vex  me  with  such  mockery. 
All  your  pert  smartness,  and  your  sallies  shrewd, 
Are  spent  with  loss  on  ears  as  dull  as  mine. 

Mar.  Ugh  !  man,  but  I  do  hate  you  ! 

Oli.  Hate  me,  then. 

Mar.  Our  clay,  the  preachers  say,  was  warmed  to 

life; 

But  yours,  your  dull,  cold  mud,  was  frozen  to  being. 
I  would  not  be  the  oyster  that  you  are, 
For  all  the  pearls  of  wisdom  in  your  shell ! 

Oli.  A  truce  to  this  !     I  haul  my  colors  down  ; 
I  have  no  means  to  fight  your  light-armed  tongue. 
But  I  must  warn  you  — for  I  late  o'erheard 
The  words  which  you  with  Lady  Alda  held  — 
That  if  you  urge  your  sensual  doctrines  more, 
To  the  pollution  of  my  lady's  thoughts, 
My  lord  shall  know  it. 

Mar.  Pshaw  !  I  meant  no  harm. 

Oli.  I  know  not  what  you  mean,  but  harm  you  do 

Mar.  Why  talk  you  thus,  you  demi-atheist  ? 
I  've  heard  you  hold  a  creed  against  the  church, 
Which,  spread  abroad,  might  overturn  the  world, 
And  send  us  all  unbaptized  to  the  pit. 
They  say  you  have  no  faith  in  good  men's  prayers ; 


11  CALAYNOS. 

And  talk  not  of  salvation,  but  progression.  — 
Are  these  things  so  ? 

Oli.  Are  you  Inquisitor  ? 

Mar.  Did  you  say  aught  against  the  Holy  Office  ? 

Oli.  No  word,  to  you,  0,  pious  Catholic  ! 

Mar.  Ambassador  from  cloud-land,  take  your  leave 
I  do  not  wish  to  vex  an  oracle  ; 
And  we  have  bandied  words  enough  to-day. 

Oli.  I  go  ;  but  keep  my  warning  in  your  mind. 


Mar.  That  man  of  learning  has  a  lynx's  eye 
I  '11  be  more  circumspect  :  it  will  riot  do 
To  have  the  great  Calaynos  at  my  ears  ; 
To  leave  behind  a  home  as  warm  as  this, 
Where  1  'm  half  mistress  of  whatever  it  holds, 
Again  to  struggle  with  the  ruthless  world  : 
Yet  to  Seville  1  '11  go  for  wantonness. 
Well,  we  shall  see  what  woman's  craft  can  do 
Against  the  brains  of  two  philosophers.  [Exit.} 


SCENE    II. 
The  Study  of  CALAYNOS.     Enter  OLIVER. 

Oliver.  I  do  not  like  this  journey  of  my  lord's 
And  yet  I  know  not  why  ;  the  path  is  safe, 
And  we  are  guarded  by  a  retinue. 
'T  is  many  a  year  since  last  I  saw  Seville ; 
'T  is  natural,  therefore,  I  should  wish  to  go : 
Yet  do  I  not.     What  can  this  feeling  mean  ? 
Is  it  that  influence,  overmastering  will, 
Presentiment,  which  pulls  me  from  the  wish, 


CALAYNOS.  15 

And  presses  on  my  heart  its  leaden  weight  ? 
I  've  heard  that  soundest  sleepers  will  awake 
When  danger  steals  upon  them.     It  may  be 
The  first  low  knocking  of  death's  pallid  hand, 
Ere  he  flings  wide  the  gate  which  shelters  life, 
That  so  appalls  my  mind  and  shakes  my  purpose.    • 
Pshaw  !  this  is  idle.  —  I  must  e'en  end  thus, 
As  I  began,  I  do  not  wish  to  go. 

(Enter  CALAYNOS.) 

Calaynos.    Are   all  things  ready  for    our   setting 
forth  ? 

Oil.  They  are,  my  lord. 

Gal.  Then,  at  the  break  of  day, 

Mount  all  the  train. 

Oli.  You  have  delayed  till  then  ? 

Cal.  Yes  ;  'twas  my  lady's  wish,  riot  my  intent. 
But  on  the  morrow  we  must  sure  begone  ; 
We  do  but  give  our  parting  lengthened  pangs 
By  keeping  doubt  alive. 

(Enter  a  Servant.) 

Servant.  My  lord,  old  Friar  Gil  is  in  the  hall, 
And  craves  admittance. 

Cal.  Friar  Gil !  how  's  this  ? 

;T  was  but  a  week  ago  we  met,  and  then 
lie  tottered  so  beneath  his  weight  of  years, 
He  scarce  could  ope  the  door  that  guards  his  cell. 

Ser.  He  seems  to  walk  with  pain,  and  well-nigh 

dropped 
Ere  we  could  bring  him  to  the  neighboring  hall. 


16  CALAYNOS. 

Gal,  Admit  him,  then.    [Exit  Servant.}  'T  is  near  a 

miracle  ; 
So  feeble  — 

(Enter  FRIAR  GIL.) 

Friar  Gil.  Son,  my  blessing ! 

Oal.  Welcome,  Father ! 

Thou  art  fatigued  and  weakened  by  thy  walk.  — 
What  cause  has  drawn  thee  from  thy  cell  so  far  ? 
Such  lengthened  walks,  to  one  of  thy  great  age, 
Are  full  of  peril.     Why  not  send  for  me  ? 
Bring  a  chair,  Oliver.      [OLIVER  places  a  chair.] 

So,  sit  thee  down. 

Friar  G.  I  feared  to  miss  thee  ;  as  I  lately  heard 
That  thou  design'st  a  journey  to  Seville  : 
1  came  to  warn  thee  from  that  dangerous  step. 

Cat.  Dangerous !     What  danger  do  you  know  or 
fear  ? 

Friar  G.  None  that  is  certain,  every  one  I  fear. 

Oli.  Ha  !  here  's  another  seer.     [Aside.'} 

Cal.  Father,  thy  path  through  life  was  long  and 

hard, 

And  thou  hast  gathered  wisdom  by  the  way  ; 
But  this  idea  is  baseless  fantasy. 

Friar  G.  Hear  me,  Calaynos  !     As  I  lay  last  night 
Sleepless,  but  why  I  know  not,  on  my  bed, 
Telling  my  beads  and  thinking  o'er  my  sins, 
Thy  grandsire,  as  I  saw  him  ere  he  left 
This  castle  for  Seville,  before  me  stood,  ' 
Pointing  his  hand,  through  which  the  moonbeams 

shone,    . 

To  a  great  gash  beneath  his  lifted  arm  ; 
Then,  solemnly  and  slow,  he  waved  his  hand, 


CALAYNOS.  17 

As  if  in  warning-,  towards  the  castle-gate. 

1  strove  to  speak ;  but,  ere  my  tongue  was  loosed, 

The  melancholy  shadow  passed  away. 

So,  with  the  dawn,  I  rose  to  seek  thee  here : 

Once  turned  me  back,  to  'scape  thy  lordship's  laugh  ; 

But,  ere  three  steps  were  taken,  I  prostrate  fell, 

Though  the  path  'rieath  me  was  without  a  stone. 

It  seemed  the  will  of  heaven  that  urged  me  on, 

And  gave  my  feeble  frame  unwonted  strength : 

So  have  I  sought  thee,  though  but  half  in  hope, 

To  overrule  thee  in  this  enterprise. 

Gal.  For  thy  kind  zeal   I  thank  thee.     ;T  was  a 

dream, 

Bred  on  a  superstition  of  our  house, 
That  to  my  race  Seville  brings  fated  death. 

Friar  G.  Has  it  not  been  ?    Did  not  the  one  I  saw 
Fall  at  Seville,  struck  by  a  coward's  steel 
Over  the  wine-cup  ?     So  thy  father  thought ; 
And  he  did  homage  by  a  deputy, 
As  oft  I  've  heard  him  say.     Go  further  back  ; 
All  of  thy  race  shunried,  as  a  plague,  Seville. 
And  thou,  the  last  of  all  the  mighty  line, 
The  wisest,  greatest,  without  heir  or  kin, 
Wouldst  tempt  thy  fate,  though  nothing  urges  thee  ! 

Gal.  This  is  a  thing  at  which  my  reason  laughs, 
And  naught  but  actual  trial  can  resolve. 

Friar  G.  Go,  go,  thou  headstrong  man  !     Nay,  I  '11 

not  chide  ; 
May  God  go  with  thee  !     I  have  done  my  part. 

[Going.] 

Gal.  Farewell !     We  '11  meet  again. 

Friar  G.  Perhaps  —  farewell!  [Exit.] 

OH.  I  hope,  my  lord,  you  '11  take  the  Friar's  advice. 

VOL.  i  2 


18  CAKAYXOS. 

Gal.  Take  what?  — Take  hellebore,  good  Oliver  I 
For  you  with  Friar  (Jil  have  lost  your  wits. 

Oli.  I  am  not  superstitious,  as  you  know  ; 
But  when  1  think  what  greatness  hangs  on  you, 
And  with  your  fall  how  much  would  be  o'erthrown, 
I  nigh  believe  that  watchful  heaven  might  send 
This  anxious  phantom  to  avert  your  ill. 

Cat.  1  do  not  go  through  stiff-necked  stubbornness  ; 
I  view  these  rights  of  homage  to  the  crown 
As  a  stale  pageant  better  unperformed, 
At  least  by  me,  who  can  depute  the  act. 
But  in  Seville  I  have  a  most  dear  friend, 
From  whom,  till  late,  I  had  not  heard  for  years ; 
And  now  he  writes  me  in  the  closest  straits, 
Saying  his  lands  are  forfeit  for  some  debts, 
By  knavish  means  imposed  upon  his  hands  : 
Should  the  law  take  its  course,  his  wealth  is  gone, 
And  he  turned  forth  in  utter  beggary. 
Some  days  ago,  I  sent  him  present  aid ; 
With  promise  to  redeem  his  lands  from  pawn, 
When  at  Seville  I  shall  the  court  attend. 

Oli.  Let  me  not  balk  you  in  this  noble  act, 
Though  instant  peril  stare  us  in  the  face. 

Cat.  He  loves  not  good  who  turns  from  it  through 

fear. 

0,  what  a  joy  is  it  to  have  the  power 
That  lifts  from  want  the  worthy  sufferer ! 
What  double  rapture  when  he  calls  us  friend, 
And  with  that  name  wipes  obligation  off! 
Out,  out!  —  my  heart's  afire,  till  this  be  done  ! 
Urge  on  the  loiterers,  —  see  them  all  prepared 
To  start  at  dawn,  —  our  speed  shall  clip  the  way! 


CALAYNOS.  19 


SCENE  I.     A  Street  in  Seville.     Enter  DON  Luis  and  SOTO. 

Don  Luis.    STAND  here,  good  Soto  ;  should  a  dun 

come  by, 

Stop  the  base  fellow,  ere  he  gain  my  door, 
With  some  excuse  you  are  so  apt  at  framing  ; 
But. by  no  means  admit  him  to  the  house. 

Soto.  My  lord,  I  '11  try,  if  trying  can  avail. 
Of  late  my  stock  of  lies  has  run  full  low, 
And  all  my  wares  are  out  of  date  and  stale. 
The  creditors  have  got  the  wind  of  me, 
And  strive  with  tricks  to  meet  my  subtlest  shifts. 
For  if  I  say  you  're  ill,  and  in  your  bed, 
The  fellow  vows  he  is  a  learned  leech, 
For  whom  your  lordship  sent.     If,  to  the  next, 
I  say  you've  gone  from  town  to  stay  a  month, 
The  rogue  but  asks  admittance  for  a  while, 
To  write  a  line  for  you,  on  your  return. 
Another  comes  hot  haste,  as  if  a  friend, 
Pregnant  with  news  which  argues  you  much  good  ; 
Another  bears  a  letter  from  the  Court ; 
Another  has  a  package,  stuffed  with  rags, 
As  a  rare  present  from  a  nobleman. 
I  hear  they  watch  all  night  the  city  gates, 
For  fear  you  might  escape. 

Don  L.  Then  say  that  I 


20  CALAYNOS. 

Am  harbored  with  a  rich,  usurious  Jew, 
\Yho  lends  me  money  on  my  country-house, 
With  which  I  will  discharge  their  claims  ere  long. 
Solo.  That  will  scarce  do  ;  they  have  more  knowl 

edge  got 

Of  your  affairs,  of  what  you  hold,  what  owe, 
Of  what  encumbrances  are  on  the  lands, 
Than  I  conceive  your  lordship  can  possess. 

Don  L.  Well,   well ;  but  put  them  off,   and  I  'in 

content. 

I  must  be  gone  ;  the  town  begins  to  wake.       [Exit.} 
Soto.  Here  's  a  fine  prospect  for  an  airy  breakfast! 
He  thinks  I  live  on  moisture  from  the  earth ; 
So  stands  me  here  to  take  my  fill  of  it. 
Were  I  an  ostrich,  there  Js  a  tender  stone, 
Soft  as  my  master's  heart,  on  which  I  'd  feed  ; 
But  as  a  Christian  man  —  nay,  1 7m  a  saint-— 
I  keep  more  fasts  than  all  the  Calendar : 
A  little  out  of  time  —  but  what  of  that  ? 
I  '11  plead,  the  Pope  has  changed  the  almanac. 
Last  Friday  I  ate  meat  —  well,  what  of  that? 
Sunday  and  Monday,  not  a  bone  saw  I. 
To  fast 's  the  thing  —  the  deed,  and  not  the  day  — 
To  mortify  the  flesh,  and  starve  out  sin. 
Some  mortified  their  flesh  on  Friday  last ; 
But  I  chose  Sunday  —  who  is  better  now  ? 
I  mortified  my  flesh  as  much  as  they, 
Only  I  took  a  better  day  to  do  it. 
Lord !    who   comes   here,  tricked   off  in    grandad'a 

clothes  ? 

So  out  of  fashion,  and  so  rustical ! 
But  yet  the  bumpkin  has  a  noble  air, 
As  born  for  acts  above  his  quality. 


CALAYNOS.  21 

(Enter  OLIVEB.) 

Ho,  there  !  why  stare  you  thus  at  every  house, 
As  if  you  thought  the  stones  could  speak  to  you? 
You  are  a  stranger,  if  I  judge  aright ; 
Can  I  assist  you  in  your  present  search  ? 

Oliver.  Thanks  for  your  courteous  speech  and  kind 

intent. 

In  truth,  I  'm  puzzled,  in  this  thick-built  town, 
To  find  the  single  house  for  which  I  look. 

Soto.  Whose  is  the  house  ? 

Oli.  Don  Luis  is  his  name  ; 

On  whom  my  lord  intends  to  call  ere  long. 

Soto.  Here  Ja  a  new  trick  of  these  cursed  creditors  ! 
What  will  they  next  ?     [Aside  ]     What  station  hold 

you,  friend, 
In  your  lord's  pay  ? 

OH.  His  secretary  I. 

Soto.  'Tis  a  good  place.     I  once  that  office  held — • 
By  dint  of  an  inked  nail,  to  recommend  — 
Under  a  lord  who  flits  about  the  Court, 
For  a  good  twelve-month.     But,  alas,  one  day 
He  fell  in  love,  and  called  on  rne  to  write, 
Then  kicked  me  out  of  doors. 

Oli.  Why,  how  was  that  ? 

Soto.  Simple  enough,  —  I  could  not  write  a  line. 

Oli.  Your  impudence  but  bore  its  natural  fruit. 

Soto.  I   thought   a   courtier's    scribe   a   thing   for 

show  — 

Part  of  his  state,  and  not  designed  for  use  : 
So  7t-would  have  been,  had  he  not  fallen  in  love. 

Oli.  What  station  fill  you  now  ? 

Soto.  Of  every  use. 

When  my  lord  cannot  play  at  dice  or  cards, 


22  CALAYXOS. 

lie  kicks  me  round  his  room,  to  pass  the  time  ; 

Or  sets  me  at  some  villany,  whereby 

He  may  be  able  to  resume  his  play  ; 

But  the  chief  thing  for  which  I  am  employed 

Is  an  experiment  on  human  stomachs, 

To  see  how  little  man  can  eat,  and  live.  — 

Are  you  well  fed  ? 

Oli.  More  than  a  week's  supply 

Is  set  before  me  daily.     If  I  wished, 
I  might  bolt  down  an  ox  at  every  meal  ; 
My  lord  would  but  admire  my  appetite. 
;T  is  a  strange  knave  —  I  '11  lead  him  further  on. 


Solo.  A.  whole  ox  ! 

Oli.  Nothing  less. 

Soto.  Most  wonderful  ! 

Yours  is  the  place  for  me,  could  I  but  write. 
But  certain  services  I  Ve  done  my  lord 
Unfit  me  for  the  change  —  so  people  think. 
Is  your  lord  rich  ? 

Oli.  The  richest  man  in  Spain. 

Soto.  What  wages  have  you  ? 

Oli.  All  he  has  is  mine, 

Were  I  disposed  to  use  it. 

Soto.  lie  's  generous  ! 

Oli.  Free  as  the  air,  which  all  alike  may  breathe. 

Soto.  His  name  ? 

Oli.  Calaynos. 

Soto.  Fiends  and  furies  seize  me 

Why  did  I  talk  this  way  about  Don  Luis  ? 
All  the  town  knows  it  —  he  must  hear  it  soon  : 
But  yet  he  may  not,  if  we  manage  right. 


CALAYNOS.  23 

What  man  of  lordly  gait  now  hither  comes  ? 
By  his  brave  port,  a  more  than  common  man. 

Oil.  That  is  my  lord  Galaynos.     Can  you  tell 
Where  this  Don  Luis  dwells,  for  whom  we  search  ? 

Sofa.  Down  yonder  street I  must  be  off 

apace, 

To  give  Don  Luis  timely  note  of  this.  — 
0,  what  a  fool,  to  slander  thus  my  master  !       [Aside.] 

[  Ex  it  running.  ] 

Oli.  Ho,  fellow,  stop  I 

(Enter  CALAYNOS.) 

Calaynos.  Why  do  you  call  so  loud  ? 

Oli.    I   held    discourse   with   one    of   those    poor 

knaves, 

Whom  the  world  forms  to  play  at  foot-ball  with  ; 
A  rascal  by  compulsion,  not  by  nature, 
With  something  good  beneath  his  villany, 
Turned  all  awry  by  outward  circumstance. 
The  knave  had  much  intelligence  and  wit, 
Appeared  acquainted  with  this  mazy  town, 
And  seemed  to  know  where  good  Don  Luis  dwells  ; 
But  ere  I  pressed  him  past  an  empty  hint, 
The  fellow  fled  as  if  a  fiend  pursued. 

Gal.  So,  then,  you  have  not  found  Don  Luis7  house. 
What  hint  gave  your  companion  of  my  friend  ? 

Oli.  He  pointed  widely  down  yon  narrow  street, 
But  to  no  single  house.     I  must  inquire. 

Cal.  Come,  I  will  aid  you  ;  thus  may  we  save  time  ; 
For  I  am  sick  of  everything  I  see. 
In  this  huge  city  virtue  is  close  housed, 
And  dares  not  show  her  face  for  very  shame  ; 
While  vice  and  folly,  like  two  brazen  drunkards, 


24  CALAYNOS. 

Reel  up  and  down  the  streets  from  morn  till  eve, 
Bullying  the  peaceful  passers  with  their  threats. 
Pah  !  what  a  purge  of  country  air  't  will  need 
To  drive  this  festering  sickness  from  my  brain  ! 
We  must  shut  eyes  and  ears,  good  Oliver, 
Or  we  '11  go  home  two  railing  misanthropes. 
Come,  let  us  on  ;  and  when  we  find  my  friend, 
We  will  hav^e  plucked  at  least  one  precious  pearl 
From  out  this  sea  of  misery  and  vice !  [Exeunt.] 


SCENE   II. 
A  Room  in  DON  Luis'  house.     DON  Luis  alone. 

Don  Luis.  All  the  supply  of  gold  Calaynos  sent 
At  length  has  dwindled  to  a  single  coin  — 
Curse  on  my  luck  !  the  cards  will  never  change. 
By  heaven  !  I  swear,  if  ever  I  grow  rich  — 
By  some  unthought  of  chance,  unborn  as  yet  — 
I  '11  shun  all  gambling  from  that  very  hour. 
But,  being  ruined,  I  must  needs  play  on  — 
For  what  wise  gamester  ever  stopped  in  loss  ?  — 
Hoping,  by  lucky  change,  to  win  all  back 
Witli  double  interest  —  fortune's  usury. 
'Tis  villanous  !  for  me,  a  gentleman, 
To  be  thus  kenneled  like  a  dangerous  cur ; 
Shut  up  by  day,  to  prowl  abroad  at  night. 
And  forage  scantly  on  my  neighbor's  fold 

[Knocking.] 
Who  's  there  ? 

Sofo.  (Without.)  Unbar  the  door.     'Tis  1,  my  lord. 


CALAYNOS.  25 

(DON  Luis  opens  the  door.     Enter  SOTO.) 

Don.  L.  You,  Soto  ?     Pray,  what  brings  you  back 
so  soon  ? 

Soto.  Good  news,   my  lord ;    up  to  your  highest 

wish  ! 

The  wealthy  friend,  of  whom  you  lately  spoke, 
Is  in  Seville,  and  seeking  for  your  house. 

Don  L.  Why  not  conduct  him  hither,  dull-brained 
dog  ? 

Solo.   And  mar  your  plot !     No  ;  I  'rn  too  old  for 

that. 

I  threw  him  off  the  scent,  and  ran  with  speed 
To  warn  you,  senor,  how  to  fake  the  man. 
You  have  not  met  your  golden  friend  for  years  : 
Mark  my  advantage,  —  I  just  quit  his  presence. 
Lord  !  sefior,  here  ;s  a  man  to  talk  about 
Before  one's  breakfast !     That 's  my  time  of  day  : 
Like  a  stopped  clock,  I  point  the  self-same  hour  — 
Just  before  breakfast !     See  my  shivering  hand 
Upon  this  sinking  button  —  mark  the  dial-plate  ! 
Is  there  a  clock  in  Spain  that  plainer  says, 
Just  before  breakfast  ?     Ah  !  you  flirt  away  : 
I  see  my  stomach  does  not  gnaw  your  ribs. 
Have  you  a  bone  hid  ? 

Don  L.  Pish  !  what  of  Calaynos  ? 

Soto.   0  wonders  !  miracles  !     He  's  not  content 
To  feed  his  servants  as  your  common  lords  : 
No,  no  —  not  he  !     His  secretary  says, 
If  the}^  complain  of  hunger  —  note  his  way  — 
He  simply  drives  a  live  ox  down  their  throats, 
Horns,  tail,  and  all !     There  's  rural  luxury  ! 
There  's  doing  dinner  on  a  royal  scale ! 
That  I  call  living  ! 


26  CALAYNOS. 

Don  L.  Sirrah,  shall  I  give 

Your  hungry  ribs  an  outside  dressing  ? 

Suto.  Nay ; 

Your  pounded  meat  is  my  aversion,  seiior. 
But,  0,  this  anaconda  way  of  life  — 
This  swallowing  oxen  with  my  appetite  — 
This  blissful  dream  of  always  being  full, 
Squeezed  out  all  baser  matter  from  my  brain. 

Don   L.  I  '11  beat  your  prating  skull  till  you  talk 
sense.  [Seizes  SOTO.] 

Soto.  What,  break  the  vessel  of  your  own  salva 
tion  ! 
Sink  ship,  chart,  compass  — 

Don  L.  Soto,  now  by  heaven  !  - 

[Strikes  him.] 

Soto.  I  'm  down,  I  yield  ;  you  have  persuaded  me. 
Calaynos  comes  to  aid  our  suffering  virtue  : 
For,  by  some  words  his  secretary  dropped, 
And  by  the  outward  bearing  of  the  man, 
I  deem  him  one  for  noble  actions  fit  — 
A  generous  mind,  above  suspicion  quite ; 
Yet  with  an  eye  that  looks  through  outward  things 
Into  the  soul,  if  once  aroused  to  doubt : 
Therefore  be  wary. 

Don  L.  Fear  me  not,  good  Soto. 

You  've  shown  a  shrewdness  that  I  dreamed  not  of. 

Soto.  But  above  all,  beware  the  man  of  ink  — 
A  kind  of  humble  friend  to  great  Calaynos  ; 
More  of  a  worldly  turn  than  is  his  master : 
He  might  walk  safely  o'er  the  roughest  path, 
While  his  lord  tripped  by  gazing  at  the  stars. 
You  may  betray  the  lord  before  his  eyes, 
But  not  the  secretary,  on  my  life.  [Knocking  \ 


CALAYNOS.  27 

Don  L.  Heard  you  a  knocking  ?     To  the  window, 
quick  ! 

Sofa.   (Looking  out.}  They  Ve  come,  the  two,  his  lord 
ship  and  the  scribe  ; 

Looking  like  hares  before  a  tempting  trap. 
Shall  I  go  clown  and  let  the  conies  in  ? 

Don  L.  Ay,  quickly ;  shut  your  mouth,  you  grin 
ning  knave !  [Exit  SOTO.] 
Now  for  another  step  in  villany  — 
Pshaw,  pshaw,  no  scruples !  I  have  left  the  path 
Which  leads  to  good,  so  far  from  where  I  stand, 
That  all  return  is  worse  than  hopeless  now. 
What  if  I  should  confess  ?     Would  he  forgive  ? 
No,  he  would  shun  me  as  a  spotted  lazar ! 
What  tells  me  to  confess  ?  — -  Some  mocking  fiend, 
That  fain  would  snatch  the  prize  within  my  grasp. 
It  cannot  be  ;  I  was  not  formed  for  good  ; 
To  what  fate  orders  I  must  needs  submit ; 
The  sin  not  mine,  but  His  who  framed  me  thus  — 
Not  in  my  will,  but  in  my  nature  lodged. 
Formed  as  I  am,  I  have  no  choice  of  fate  ; 
But  must  achieve  the  purpose  of  my  being. 
Therefore  away,  ye  cheating  fantasies  ! 
That  would  decoy  me  from  the  thing  I  'd  clutch, 
Then  leave  me  poor,  and  wickeder  than  ever. 
He  is  a  fool  who  acts  not  for  himself ; 
A  worse  than  fool,  who  chases  airy  virtue, 
And  gains  but  knocks  and  hatred  for  reward. 
Yes,  I  will  grasp  the  stable  goods  of  life, 
Nor  care  how  foul  the  hand  that  does  the  deed. 
Hark  !  they  are  coming.     Actor,  to  thy  part ! 


28  CALAYX03. 

'Enter  CALAYNOS,  OLIVER,  and  SOTO.     DON  Luis  and  CALAYNOS 
embrace  apart.     OLIVER  and  SOTO  advance.) 

Oliver.  You  here  !  and  pray,  my  friend,  how  came 

you  hither  ? 
Solo.  This   is   our  house ;    and  there  my  master 

stands, 

Doing  his  duty  to  your  lord  Calaynos. 
The  house  is  small,  and  scant  of  furniture  ; 
But  you  '11  find  rich  apartments  in  our  hearts, 
Where  you  may  lodge  until  the  walls  decay. 

Oli.  What,  he  your  lord  !     You  're  surely  jesting 

me : 

You  made  me  think,  but  half  an  hour  ago, 
Your  lord  the  chiefest  villain  in  Seville  ; 
Called  him  a  common  gamester ;  said  he  lived 
By  chcatory  of  all  kinds  and  qualities ! 
But  sure  Don  Luis  is  a  worthy  man,  — 
You,  a  deceiving  trickster  ! 

Soto.  So  I  said  : 

But  I  'm  the  greatest  liar  in  Seville  ; 
A  bastard  born,  and  therefore  false  by  nature. 
My  family,  sir,  before  me,  all  were  liars ; 
'T  is  an  infection  that  invades  our  blood  ; 
For  which  I  'm  bound  no  more  than  is  a  king 
For  the  bright  crown  that  tops  his  stately  brows  — 
Coming  by  course  of  nature,  not  desert ! 
I  love  to  lie  ;  't  is  naught  but  romance-making, 
Spoken,  not  writ  — for  I  'm  too  poor  to  print. 
I  could  tell  tales  would  make  Quevedo  stare  — 
But  not  malicious  ones  ;  and  if  believed, 
How  proud  am  I,  as  proving  truth  to  nature  ! 
I  was  but  practising  my  art  on  you. 
See  how  you  stare,  what  admiration  show  ! 


CALAYNOS.  29 

Here  Js  glory  for  an  author,  quits  my  pains. 
Yet  have  I  done  my  lord  no  grain  of  harm, 
Now  all  the  lie  is  out.     Poor,  honest  man  ! 
Why,  sir,  his  honesty  brought  on  these  straits. 

Oli.  Cease,  you  mad  dog  I  perchance  you  're  lying 
now. 

Soto.  Not  I ;  you  here  may  trust  me  without  fear  ; 
Beneath  this  roof  I  do  not  dare  to  lie. 
My  standing  here  is  most  undoubted,  senor  ; 
So  is  my  calling  — 

Don  L.  Soto  ! 

Soto.  As  you  must  perceive. 

[Retire*.] 

Oli.  I  half  suspect  this  fellow  told  the  truth 
When  first  we  met.     I  do  not  like  the  looks 
Of  him  he  calls  his  master,  yon  Don  Luis. 
Then  the  unnatural  boast  about  his  lying. — 
It  may  be  so  ;  for  I  have  known  some  men 
Who  boast  of  crime,  as  if  they  spoke  of  virtue  ; 
And  hang  their  sins  out  as  for  ornament, 
Merely  to  make  the  wondering  audience  stare. 
The  morbid  wish  to  be  observed  of  men 
Makes  heroes  of  our  dying  criminals, 
And  adds  a  goad  to  crime.     But  yet  I  '11  watch  ; 
This  limping  story  does  not  satisfy.  [Retires.] 

(CALAYNOS  and  DON  Luis  advance.) 

Calaynos.  So,  poor   companion,  thou    art  hunted 

down 

By  these  base  creditors  ;  thy  house  besieged, 
Thy  actions  spied,  sweet  liberty  infringed  ; 
God's  very  air  thy  troubled  bosom  breathes, 
Shut  up  in  this  close  mansion.     Why  not  write, 


30  OALAYNOS. 

Ere  hardship  fell  upon  thee  ?     Why  not  fly, 
And  seek  me  out  among  my  native  hills, 
Where  I  with  open  arms  had  welcomed  thee  ? 

Don  L.  It  was  with  fear  that  I  disclosed  my  state, 
Half  doubting  this  return  from  even  thee  : 
For  we  were  sundered  in  the  May  of  youth, 
Nor  since  have  held  communion.     Ah,  I  thought 
Thou,  like  my  other  friends,  hadst  callous  grown. 

Gal.  How  thou  didst  wrong  me  ! 

Don  L.  Wronged  thee,  noble  man  ! 

Yes,  I  can  ne'er  forgive  the  thoughts  I  bore 
'Gainst  thee,  and  'gainst  the  race  of  man  entire. 
For  I  have  stood  at  bay  before  the  world, 
Facing  the  wolves  that  well-nigh  pulled  me  down ; 
Until  I  deemed  mankind  a. hungry  pack, 
Eager  to  suck  their  wounded  brother's  blood. 
But  thou  hast  come  to  purge  me  of  my  gall, 
To  heal  my  wounded  heart,  to  dry  my  tears, 
And  plant  within  my  soul  a  love  for  man, 
Which,  by  Heaven's  grace,  wrong  never  shall  uproot. 

Gal.  Dost  thou  remember,  Luis,  when  we  sat 
Remote  from  men,  yet  planned  to  mankind  good  ? 
What  dreams  we  dreamed,  what  projects  grave  we 

formed, 

To  guide  our  lives  when  we  to  manhood  came  ? 
And  thou  wert  ever  first  in  these  designs  ; 
Formed  broader  projects,  gave  a  greater  scope 
To  thy  sweet  fancy,  than  thy  backward  friend  : 
And  wast  thou  first  to  plan  these  goodly  deeds, 
Yet  last  to  bear  them  out  ?     Ah  me  !   I  fear 
The  sprouts  of  fancy  most  luxuriant  shoot 
In  shallowest  soils ;  and,  when  most  forward  seeming, 
Oft-times  but  weak  of  root ! 


CALAYNOS.  V  £^         31 

v?> 

Don  L.  It  so  has  seemed.'- 

Calaynos,  hadst  thou  borne  what  I  have  borne, 
Thou  wouldst  not  be  so  gracious  to  mankind. 
Thou  hast  been  nursed  in  wealth  and  luxury, 
Thy  every  wish  been  father  to  the  deed  : 
Thou,  from  o'erflowing  means,  hast  freely  given 
That  which  it  cost  thee  nothing  to  impart  : 
But  I,   through  bad  men's    acts,   have   fallen    from 

wealth, 

Nor  know  one  day  if  I  may  feed  the  next ; 
So  that  the  coin  which  I  a  beggar  give 
A  moment  wavers  'twixt  his  need  arid  mine. 

Gal.    Luis,  you  know  not  of  the  years  1 7ve  spent, 
In  patient  study  and  unwearying  search, 
To  learn  the  wants  of  man.     I  have  digged  down 
Into  the  very  roots  and  springs  of  things  : 
All  moral  systems,  all  philosophies, 
All  that  the  poet  or  historian  wrote, 
All  hints  from  lighter  books,  all  common  sayings,  — 
The  current  coin  of  wisdom  'rnong  mankind,  — • 
Time-hallowed  truths,  and  lies  which  seem  like  truths, 
I  have  turned  o'er,  before  my  mental  eye, 
Seeking  a  guide  to  lead  me  on  to  good  ; 
And  find,  the  chiefest  springs  of  happiness 
Are  faith  in  Heaven,  and  love  to  all  mankind. 

Don  L.    This  is  a  noble  creed,  above  my  reach  — 
A  creed  for  one  in  ease  and  affluence  ; 
Better  in  speculation  than  in  deed. 

Gal.    Not  so  ;  and  thou  shalt  go,  poor  brain-sick 

man, 

Far  from  these  scenes,  to  heal  thy  wounded  rnind. 
Beneath  my  roof  thou  shalt  forget  thy  cares  ; 
And  time's  soft  plumes  will  brush  thy  tears  away  ; 


OZ  CALAYNOS. 

While  I  within  thee  may  implant  a  faith, 

To  bear  thee  safely  through  this  faithless  world. 

Don  L.   Thou  art  too  good  to  one  not  worth  thy 
love. 

Gal.    Leave  that  to  me.     But  of  the  creditors  ; 
I  long  to  stuff  their  hungry  maws  with  gold. 
Send  for  them  quickly. 

Don  L.  Nay,  1 '11  go  myself. 

A  walk  to  me  is  a  rare  luxury. 

Gal    Well,  then,  we  '11  seek  them. 

Don  L.  Nay,  I  '11  bring  them  here. 

Repose  a  while  ;  I  will  return  with  speed. 

[Exit  hastily.] 

Oli.  (Advancing.)  How  fell  Don  Luis  to  such  pov 
erty  ? 

Gal.    By  the  connivance  of  some  common  knaves, 
Who  gained  his  name  to  certain  bonds  and  deeds 
Of  a  vile  tool  of  theirs,  that  played  his  friend. 

boto.   Two  scurvy  knaves,  two  knaves  of  clubs  and 

spades, 
Took  the  last  real  he  could  call  his  own.  [Aside.} 

Oli.    (Drawing  GALA  YNOS  away  from  SOTO.)     1/iisshowsa 
lack  of  wisdom  on  his  part. 

Gal.    Nay,  Oliver,  it  shows  a  trusting  mind, 
Pure  from  suspicion,  a  most  guileless  mind, 
lie  is  a  man  whose  loving  heart  was  bruised 
By  acts  of  one  whom  most  of  all  he  loved. 
For  this,  I  quite  forgive  his  bitterness. 

Oli.    A  man  like  him,  reared  in  a  crafty  town, 
With  his  acuteness,  was  too  easily  caught 
By  a  most  shallow  and  most  bare-faced  trick. 

Gal.    Suspect  you  aught  ?     What,  sir,  you  do  sus 
pect  ? 


CALAYNOS. 


33 


Oil.    And  I  have  grounds. 

Gal.  Rash  boy,  restrain  your  tongue  ! 

Or  that  might  follow  which  you  may  repent. 
I  tell  you  he  is  pure  as  yon  bright  sun. 
Knaves  flourish  and  grow  rich  :  look  round  you  here  ; 
Does    this    poor    house    show    aught  of  prosperous 

crime  ? 

If  he  were  wealthy,  or  o'erblown  with  pride, 
I  M  listen  to  the  silly  words  you  speak. 
I  knew  him  from  a  child ;  you  catch  a  glance  ; 
And  yet  you  tell  me,  as  a  trader  would, 
This  gold  is  counterfeit !     These  words  of  yours 
Savor  of  cunning  low,  and  not  of  wisdom. 
Yet  never  seek  to  sprinkle  in  my  ear 
Your  worldly  gall !     What  I  will  do,  I  will ! 
Nor  you,  and  all  the  world  — 

Oli.  My  lord,  my  lord  I 

Gal.    Pardon  me,  Oliver  ;  thy  wish  was  good, 
And  towards  my  interest  aimed,  though  shot  awry. 
Think  not  of  what  I  said.     Let  us  go  in  : 
There  is  a  couch  ;  I  would  repose  a  while. 

[Exeunt  CALAYNOS  and  OLIVER.] 

Soto.   Lord  !  What  an  actor  has  my  master  grown  ! 
It  takes  a  gentleman  to  lie  complete. 
I  'in  but  a  blunderer  to  this  mighty  man, 
Who  lies  by  rule,  is  armed  at  every  point, 
Ready  for  each  conjecture.     'Tis  a  system 
To  which  an  humble  man  can  ne'er  attain. 
I  do  not  like  that  secretary's  air  : 
He  is  too  shrewd  ;   and  has  a  busy  brain, 
That  ever  seeks  for  plots  and  deep  deceits 
In  a1!  he  looks  at.     For  a  rustic  born, 

VOL.  i.  3 


.34  UALAYNOS. 

The  fellow  's  wise  enough  :  but  what  a  fool, 
What  a  poor,  generous,  trusting  dolt  his  lord  ! 
Here  's  a  fine  subject  for  the  Don  to  fleece  ! 
Why,  we  '11  grow  rich  on  him,  regain  our  state, 
And  flourish  bravely,  as  we  did  of  old. — 
But  I  must  warn  Don  Luis,  once  again, 
To  keep  an  eye  upon  the  cunning  scribe.  [ 


SCENE   III. 
Jl  Street  in  front  of  the  Exchange.     Enter  four  USURERS,  meeting 

First  Usurer.    What  is  the  news  on  'Change  ? 

Second  Usurer.  Of  great  import 

'T  is  said  the  Court  to-morrow  leaves  Seville  ; 
When  all  the  chiefest  gentlemen  of  Spain, 
Nobles  and  commons,  follow  it  of  course. 

Third  Usurer.  Half  of  our  business  gone  !    That 's 

news  enough 

To  break  one's  heart.     How  slow  are  fortunes  made  ! 
Here  I  've  been  laboring  for  a  score  of  years, 
With  scarce  a  pittance  for  my  daily  toil. 

Second  U.    0,  that  comes  well  from  you,  who  could 

nigh  buy 
A  noble  dukedom  with  one  half  your  means  ! 

Fourth   Usurer.  They  say  the  plague  is  coming 

here  again  — 

That  the  French  king  is  to  a  war  inclined  — 
I  heard  Don  Luis  sawed  his  head  half  off, 
With  a  dull  knife,  to  cheat  us  creditors. 

First  U.    That 's   sure   a  lie ;    for  here  Don  Luia 
comes. 


CALAYNOS.  35 

Third  U.    Nor  tries  to  shun  us  !     What  does  this 
portend  ? 

(Enter  DON  Luis.) 

Don  L.    Good-day,  my  friends  ! 

Usurers.  Good-day,  good  seiior  ! 

Don.L.   My  friends,  I  do  not  wish  you  should  bear 

loss, 

By  the  large  loans  which  you  have  each  advanced ; 
So,  by  your  leave,  to-day  I  '11  pay  the  debts, 
On  slight  conditions  which  you  '11  not  deny. 
I  have  a  friend  in  town,  of  ample  wealth, 
Who  '11  settle  all,  without  a  real's  loss, 
If  you  keep  silent ;  nor,  by  word  or  deed, 
Say  aught  of  me,  or  why  I  raised  the  loans, 
Or  how  I  brought  myself  to  poverty. 
And  should  he  ask  for  what  I  owe  these  sums, 
You  '11  say  that  for  a  friend  a  bond  I  signed, 
Whose  treacherous  flight  makes  me  responsible. 
Are  you  agreed  ?     Say  yes  or  no  :  if  no, 
Your  only  chance  for  pay  is  lost. 

First  U.  My  lord, 

You  are  too  sudden  ;  give  us  time  for  thought. 

Don  L.     (Apart  to  SECOND  USURER.)    Come   hither,    sir. 

You  are  of  gentle  blood, 

And,  therefore,  know  what  feelings  cling  to  rank ; 
Nor  would  you  shame,  by  an  incautious  word, 
A  gentleman  who  loves  you  for  your  birth. 
I  trust  your  honor  ;  knowing  that  I  lean 
On  that  which  might  uphold  a  monarch's  throne. 
You  '11  not  betray  the  secret  which  I  leave, 
With  purest  faith,  intrusted  to  your  hands. 
A  breath  of  yours  might  mar  my  state  for  aye, 


36  CALAYNOS. 

And  blot  a  noble  family  from  the  land, 

To  which  you  are  of  kin  —  though  distantly. 

Second  U.    Racks  shall  not  wring  it  from  me  ! 

Don  L.  I  'm  content. 

The  pompous  fool !  his  race  cleaned  boots  for  ages 

[Aside.] 

Second   U.    (Aside.)    There  's  birth  and  breeding ; 

there  's  a  gentleman  ! 
Called  me  his  cousin  !     lie  may  trust  till  doom  ! 

[Retire*.] 

Don  L.    (To  FIRST  USURER.)    I  'd  speak  a  word  apart 
with  you,  my  friend. 

First  U.    What  would  your  lordship  ? 

Don  L.  You  're  a  prudent  man  ; 

And  would  not  lose  your  loan  by  empty  words  — 
Words  which  may  do  me  harm,  but  you  no  good : 
Therefore,  if  you  desire  to  use  the  gold, 
I  charge  you  give  no  hint  of  my  affairs 
To  him  who  pays  the  debt.     Men  call  you  wise, 
And  say  you  gained  your  wealth  by  strictest  silence. 

First  U.    Trust  me,  my  lord  ;  't  is  not  my  wont  to 

prate 
When  any  moneyed  business  is  concerned.    [Retires.] 

Don.    L.     (To  THIRD  USURER.)    Hither,    you  jackal 

List  to  what  I  say  ! 
If  you  reveal  why  I  'm  in  debt  to  you, 
Or  say  a  word  of  interest  or  its  rate, 
Or  how  I  raised  the  loan,  I  '11  blow  a  storm 
Shall  drive  you  naked  from  Seville  to-night ! 
There  's  a  young  nobleman,  a  gay  Don  Juan, 
With  whom  in  trade  you  were  concerned  of  late  — 
Look  to  it  —  if  you  dare  to  blab  a  word, 


CALAYNOS.  37 

His  father,  old  Alfonso,  shall  know  more, 
Before  to-night,  than  what  he  dreamed  this  morn ! 
Third  U.    Good  heavens  I  you  know  — 

Don  L.  Naught  that  I  wish  to  tell. 

I  have  the  whip-hand  of  you  —  by  the  gods, 
I  '11  make  you  smoke  if  you  prove  restive  now  ! 
Third  U.    Fear  not,  my  lord. 

Don  L.  Nay,  nay  ;  fear  me,  you  leech  ! 

Third  U.    (Aside.)    How  knows  he  this  ?     [Retires.] 

Don  L.    (To  FOURTH  USURER.)    Come  here,  you  trem 
bling  slave  ! 

If  you  by  word,  or  look,  or  act,  or  sign, 
Or  hesitating  speech,  or  stammering  tongue, 
Wise  looks,  or  shrugs,  which  seem  to  hide  a  thought, 
Give  any  token  that  you  know  me  else 
Than  as  a  poor  but  worthy  gentleman, 

Who  suffers  through  misfortune,  not  through  fault 

If  you  act  thus,  by  yon  bright  heaven,  I  swear 
I  '11  drive  my  dagger  half-way  down  your  throat ! 

Fourth  U.    Good  lord,  you  would  not  kill  me  ! 

Don  L.  Kill  you,  rogue  ! 

Ay,  and  throw  out  your  carcass  to  the  dogs  ; 
Thinking  I  'd  done  the  brutes  small  charity  ! 

Fourth  U.    Dear  senor,  I  '11  be  quiet  as  a  mouse. 

Don  L.    Look  to  yourself;  my  eye  will  be  on  you. 

(Turns  to  all  the  USURERS.) 
Follow  me,  masters  ;  if  you  have  resolved 
To  act  as  I  proposed. 

Usurers.  We  have,  my  lord.     [Exeunt.] 


38  CALAYXOS. 

SCENE  IV. 
A  Room  in  DON  Luis'  house.     CALAYNOS  and  OLIVER. 

Calayno*.    What,  not  yet  rid  of  your  suspicious 

thoughts  ? 

Pray  cast  them  off,  as  unbecoming  things, 
Unworthy  to  consume  the  idle  time 
Which  you  will  waste  in  entertaining  them. 
Suspicious  men  are  like  those  slinking  curs 
That  whine  and  fly,  if  we  but  show  the  lash, 
And  suffer  torture  ere  they  feel  a  blow. 
If  you  will  nourish  them,  I  promise  you 
Enough  of  food  to  rear  your  nurslings  on  ; 
For  you  will  strain  and  twist  his  every  act 
To  confirmation  of  your  worst  suspicions. 
A  falling  straw  shall  make  you  swear  him  false, 
An  idle  word  shall  damn  him  past  reclaim  ; 
Though  he,  poor  man,  be  innocent  of  crime, 
And  all  the  guilt  be  harbored  in  your  breast. 
I  'd  as  soon  be  a  conscience-hunted  felon, 
As  one  pursued  by  packs  of  fantasies  ! 

Oliver.   My    lord,    for  you,  I  '11   try  to  love  your 

friend  ; 

But  you  will  pardon,  if  with  poor  success. 
When  first  I  saw  him,  a  cold  shudder  ran 
From  head  to  foot ;  the  while  my  faint  heart  thumped, 
Like  a  great  weight,  against  its  prison-house  ; 
And  when  he  strained  you  in  his  close  embrace. 
I  'd  rather  have  seen  a  tiger  mount  your  breast. 
You  half  believe  in  these  antipathies, 
That  tell,  like  instinct,  of  some  coming  ill  ; 
For  you  are  firm  of  faith  in  sympathies, 
Which  prove,  if  they  exist,  their  opposites. 


CALAYNOS.  39 

Gal.    Cease,  Oliver  ;  we  cannot  harmonize, 
I  will  not  doubt  him  till  1  find  him  false. 

Oli.    Pray  give  me  leave  to  ask  the  creditors,  • 
Unknown  to  him,  how  in  their  debt  he  grew  ? 

Gal.    Yes,   for  your  own  repose  ;.  I  'd  have  you 

friends  ; 

If  that  will  satisfy,  you  have  my  leave. 
Now  to  your  writings  ;  here  Don  Luis  comes. 
(Enter  DON  Luis  and  the  USURERS.) 

Don  Luis.  (Apart  to  CALAYNOS.)    Here  are  the  cred 
itors  ;  pray  treat  them  fair  : 

'T  will  but  make  foes  to  chide  them  for  their  wrongs  ; 
And,  as  thou  kriow'st,  I  Ve  enemies  enough. 

Gal.    As  you  think  fit.     Come  hither,  gentlemen, 
And  give  your  papers  to  my  secretary ; 
He  will  write  orders  for  their  settlement. 

[To  the  USURERS.] 

(CALAYNOS  and  DON  Luis  talk  apart.     OLIVER  seats  himself  at  a 
table.) 

Oli.    This  is  a  large  amount  for  one  man's  bond. 

[Aside.] 
What  usury  did  good  Don  Luis  pay  ? 

[To  the  USURERS.] 
First    Usurer.    7T  was  not  by  usury  he    came  in 

debt ; 

'T  was  by  a  bond,  which  he  endorsed  for  one 
Who  raised  the  gold,  and  then  proved  false  to  him. 
Oli.    But  where  's  the  bond  ?  When  paid,  't  must 

be  erased. 
First  U.    (Apart  to  the  others.)    The  devil !    here  's  a 

strait !    What  shall  we  say  ? 

Don  L.    (Advancing.}  What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
gentlemen  ? 


40  CALAVN08. 

Firtsl  U.    Sefior,  the  secretary  wants  your  bond, 
Which  we  forgot  to  bring. 

Don  L.  Nay,  nay,  not  so  ; 

'T  was  put  into  my  hands  as  we  came  here. 
You  gave  it,  did  you  not  ?     [To  FOURTH  USURER.] 

Fourth  Usurer.  I  did,  my  lord. 

[Box  Luis  retires.'] 

Oli.    Baffled  !  and  yet  't  is  strange  !     These  cred 
itors 

Take  up  their  pay,  as  if  they  felt  no  shame  ; 
Which,  were  the  action  guilty,  they  should  show. 

[.Aside.] 

(Turns  to  the  FOURTH  USURER.) 

Why,  sirrah,  what  a  cursed  knave  are  you, 
To  grasp  your  cheat-ings  with  so  meek  a  face  ! 
You  've  done  a  deed  might  bring  you  to  the  oar. 
You,  and  your  fellows,  should  march  two  by  two, 
With  iron  chains  around  your  villain  necks, 
To  seek  the  hulks,  by  dint  of  conscience  driven. — 
You  slimy  swindler,  you  vile  cozener ! 
Fourth  U.    Why  is  it  wrong  to  lend  — 

'    (Dox  Luis  enhances,  playing  with  his  dagger-hilt.) 

to  lend  —  to  lend  — 
Oli.   To  lend  what,  rascal  ? 
Don  L.  Lend  my  house  your  room. 

[To  FOURTH  USURER.] 
Have  you  not  paid  these  men,  my  gentle  friend  ? 

[To  OLIVER.] 
Oli.   I  have,  sir. 

Don  L.  (To  USURERS.)    Gentlemen,  you  may  depart. 

[Exeunt  USURERS.] 

Oli.    (Aside.)    Here  was  a  struggle  ;  but  he  bore 
it  off; 


CALAYNOS.  41 

A  moment  more,  and  he  'd  have  been  betrayed. 
Yon  man  is  guilty,  though  I  have  no  proof. 
I  '11  seem  his  friend,  but  watch  him  as  a  foe  : 
Heaven  grant,  thereby,  I  keep  my  lord  from  harm  ! 

[Retires.] 
(CALAYNOS  and  DON  Luis  advance.) 

Don  L.    My  noble  friend,  what  service  hast  thou 

done 

To  one  unworthy  of  thy  least  regard  ! 
How  like  a  dew  thy  gentle  acts  have  fallen 
On  that  dry  waste,  my  scarred  and  thirsting  heart ! 
0,  may  the  blessings  of  a  grateful  mind 
Rise  up  in  prayers  to  Heaven,  like  evening  mists, 
To  fall  on  thee  in  balmy  freshening  showers, 
Dropped  from  His  hand  who  smiles  on  kindly  deeds  ! 
I  '11  love  my  former  sufferings  from  this  hour  ; 
Since,   through   my   pain,   thou   hast    such    rapture 

wrought. 
Col.    Cease,  cease  !    Thy  words  have  overpaid  the 

act; 

If  thou  proceed'st,  thou  plungest  me  in  debt ; 
Such  gratitude  doth  shame  my  blushing  gold. 
But,  Luis,  to  this  corner  of  thy  heart, 
Warmed  with  the  heat  of  friendship's  holy  flame, 
Take  not  thy  friend,  unless  thou  'It  take  mankind  ; 
And,  for  the  love  of  one,  love  all  his  race  : 
Many  are  worthier  of  regard  than  I. 

Don  L.  I  think  not  so  ;  but  thou  shalt  use  my  hc;irt 
As  a  poor  mansion,  over  which  thou  rulest : 
if  so  thou  will'st,  call  in  thy  dearest  friends  ; 
They  shall  be  welcome,  though  they  're  all  mankind. 
Gal.    And  now  make  ready  to  depart  with  me. 


42  CALAYNOS. 

I  long  to  have  thee  breathe  my  native  air, 
And  share  such  pleasures  as  my  home  affords. 

Don  L.    An  hour,  and  1  '11  be  with  you.         [Exit.\ 

Gal.  Oliver. 

OIL    My  lord. 

Cat  Collect  the  train  ;  we  must  be  gone. 

OIL    How  soon  ?  —  To-day  ? 

Cal.  Within  an  hour,  at  most. 

Oli.    It  can  be  done. 

Cal.  Then  haste  ;  your  time  is  brief.    [Exit.] 

Oli.  Confusion  !     lie  departs  with  such  hot  speed, 
I  '11  not  have  time  to  see  the  creditors. 
I  purposed  to  untwist  this  tangled  skein  — 
To  free  the  Don,  or  to  confirm  his  guilt : 
But  this  unthought  of  haste  o'erturns  my  scheme, 
And  leaves  me  wandering  'mid  my  doubts  and  fears. 


CALAYNOS.  43 


ACT    III. 
SCENE  I.     A  Room  in  CALAYNOS'  Castle.    DONA  ALDA. 

Dona  Alda.    0,  WEARY,  weary  days,  how  slow  ye 

pass  ! 

Flow  on,  flow  on,  and  bring  Calaynos  home ! 
Yet  why  should  I  desire  my  lord's  return? 
His  presence  makes  small  difference  to  me  : 
Shut  up  in  his  dim  study,  pondering  o'er 
The  yellow  leaves  of  the  most  learned  dead, 
Short  time  he  gives  to  me  ;  and  when  he  comes, 
With  stately  step,  and  quiet,  solemn  eyes, 
He  chills  the  joy  that  from  my  heart  would  burst, 
With  a  most  dreary  smile,  or  smiling  sigh. 
Yet  I  do  love  him,  or  I  think  I  do.  — 
Pale,  melancholy  man,  thy  godlike  mind 
Was  rather  formed  for  multitudes  to  praise, 
Than  for  a  woman's  individual  love 
To  spend  its  wayward  feelings  on,  unawed. 
No  change,  no  change  !     Can  I  be  happy  here  — 
I,  running  o'er  with  the  hot  blood  of  youth, 
Eager  for  action,  sick  of  dull  repose, 
That  rusts  my  spirit  with  unburnished  rest  ?  — 
I  happy  !  plodding  an  unvarying  round 
Of  sullen  days,  that  slowly  crawl  to  years  ? 
My  life  is  like  a  dammed  and  sluggish  pool, 
Topped  with  a  scum  of  foul,  green  discontent, 


4 1  CALAYNOS. 

Which  loads  my  breast,  and  keeps  the  sunlight  off. 
(A  horn  sounds.     Enter  MARTINA.) 

What  means  that  sound  ? 

Martina.  The  warder  blew  the  blast ; 

Your  lord  and  train  approach  the  castle  gate. 
What  quick  return  from  dear  Seville  he  makes ! 
Had  I  been  he,  I  'd  staid  from  home  a  year. 

Dona  A.    'T  is  a  strange  taste,  his  love  for  these 

old  walls : 

He  oft  has  said,  he  passes  not  an  hour, 
Which  he  calls  happy,  when  away  from  them. 

Mar.    Lord  !  lady,  what  a  speech  !    Were  he  well 

bred, 

He  'd  say  from  you  no  happy  hour  was  passed. 
You  were  included  in  the  walls,  I  deem, 
With  sundry  other  scraps  of  furniture. 
I  hate  a  man  who  rolls  in  self-content, 
And  needs  no  one  to  help  his  happiness ! 

Dona  A.    You  hate  my  lord  ? 

Mar.  0,  no  !  my  lady  dear  ; 

I  spoke,  as  we  unthinking  women  do, 
In  o'crstrained  phrase,  that  means  not  what  it  says. 

Dona  A.    In  the  brief  letter  I  last  night  received, 
lie  writes,  a  much-loved  friend  returns  with  him, 
T}  share  what  sports  our  castle  can  afford. 

Mar.    What   sports  !    what    sports  !  —  To  see  the 

half-bred  Moors 

Dance  to  their  pagan  drums,  on  Baptist's  day  ; 
And  howl  and  rave,  as  if  the  maw  of  hell 
Had  cast  its  devils  up  to  mar  our  earth  ! 
These  are  the  only  sports.     The  holidays, 
Except  Saint  John's,  go  off  with  moody  shows, 


CALAYNOS.  45 

Which  well-nigh  make  a  Christian  woman  weep. 
Who  is  the  friend  ? 

Dona  A.  I  know  not :   a  young  man  ; 

But  yet  not  named.  —  How  old  do  you  suppose  him  ? 

Mar.    Thirty  in  years,  and  yet  a  century  old  ! 
A  heart  dried  up,  like  one  of  Egypt's  mummies, 
All  balmed  and  spiced  in  rare  philosophy  ; 
A  spindle-shanked,  lean-visaged,  red-eyed  youth, 
With  a  most  rickety  and  crooked  back, 
That  got  its  set  o'er  Plato  ;  one  who  fears 
To  look  a  pretty  woman  in  the  face, 
Who  would  begin  his  prayers  if  one  came  near ; 
Who  with  his  senses  has  not  lived  a  day, 
Yet  ages  with  his  brains. 

Dona  A.  And  I  suppose, 

A  man  much  like  my  lord,  of  earnest  mien, 
Of  grave  and  reverend  looks  —  incarnate  wisdom 
Made  manifest  and  pure  in  earthly  form — •• 
A  man  without  a  sin,  or  fault,  or  stain  : 
Such  must  he  be  whom  lord  Calaynos  loves. 

Mar.    Would  he  had  brought  a  gallant  gentleman, 
Such  as  adorns  the  splendid  court  of  Spain  ! 
A  man  all  smiles  and  service  to  us  women  ; 
Faultless  in  dress,  with  a  light,  dashing  air, 
That  wins  his  way  to  every  lady's  heart ; 
A  man  of  wit,  in  conversation  apt, 
Ready  in  trifles,  with  a  thorough  knowledge 
Of  all  the  little  things  which  women  love  ; 
One  who  can  talk  of  China,  or  of  cats  — 
Of  furs,  or  frills  —  of  lace,  or  Cashmere  shawls  — 
And  be  as  learned  and  absolute  in  these 
As  is  your  lord  in  metaphysics'  lore  : 
That  were  a  proper  man  —  a  man  of  fashion  — 


4G  CALAVXUS. 

A  man  of  feeling,  delicate,  refined  ; 
Not  a  great  clumsy,  learned  elephant ! 

Dona  A.    Hark!  they  are  coining.  — Get  you  in, 

Martina. 

Mar.    I  '11  pass  this  way  ;  for  1  must  see  the  guest. 

[Exit.] 

Calaynos.    ( Without.)   Is  Dona  Alda  here  ? 

Mar.    (Without.)  She  is,  my  lord  I 

(Enter  CALAYNOS,  DON  Luis,  OLIVER,  and  SOTO.) 

Dona  A.    (Embracing  CJLMSOS.)  Welcome,  my  lord. 

CaL  Dear  Alda,  in  thy  joy, 

Thou  dost  forget  the  guest  I  bring  to  thec  ; 
A  guest,  and  therefore  to  be  welcomed  first  — 
A  friend,  and  therefore  to  be  welcomed  warmly. 

Dona  A.    (To  DON  Luis.)  Pardon  me,  sefior,  if  I  once 

offend 

The  courtesy  a  lady  owes  her  guest. 
;T  is  the  first  parting  we  have  e'er  endured  ; 
Therefore  our  meeting  is  a  strange  delight, 
New  and  most  grateful.    -You  are  welcome,  seilor, 
Both  as  a  guest,  and  as  my  husband's  friend. 

Don  Luis.    Ask   me   no    pardon,  where  is  no   of 
fence.— 

Your  double  welcome  I  accept  at  heart, 
And  pray  't  may  have  a  long  continuance. 
How  beautiful  she  is  !  —  Heavens,  what  a  gem 
This  barbarous  castle  has  shut  up  in  it !  [Aside.] 

Why  came  you  not,  fair  lady,  to  Seville  ?  — 
The  court  was  there,  and  all  was  gayety, 
Which  lacked  but  you  to  make  the  joy  complete. 

Dona  A.    The  very  man  whom  last  Martina  drew. 

'T  was  not  his  will.      [Pointing  to  CALAYNOS.] 


CALAYNOS.  47 

Don  L.  Ah,  then  you  wished  to  come  ? 

Dona  A.    My  lord's  will  is  my  wish. 

Don  L.  Most  dutiful ! 

Would  that  all  ladies  could  be  taught  by  you  — 
;T  would  save  us  aches  ! 

Dona  A.    (To  CALAYNOS.)    My  lord,  we'll  share  thy 
thoughts. 

Gal.    Nay,  heed  me  not.     I  must  retire  a  while. 

[Exit.] 

Dona  A.    Perhaps  't  would  please  you,  sir,  to  view 

the  castle  ? 

No  customary  qualities  it  lacks, 
Which  dignify  all  huge  and  antique  piles. 
On  every  oaken  door  and  painted  window 
There  rests  a  legend,  magnified  by  time  ; 
Each  tower  is  tenanted,  at  evil  hours, 
By  other  forms  than  walk  its  floors  by  day  ; 
No  stone  but  has  its  story.     Some  are  gay, 
Some  grotesque  ;    some  are  sad,  some  horrible. 
I  '11  tell  you  but  the  cheerful  —  shall  we  walk  ? 

Don  L.    Ay,  like  the  Sultan  of  the  Eastern  tale, 
I  '11  list  a  thousand  nights  with  eager  ears.    [Exeunt.] 

(OLIVER  and  SOTO  advance.) 

Soto.    This  is  a  fine  old  castle — somewhat  musty. 

Oliver.    Ay,    'tis    the    mustiest    mansion    in    al) 

Spain. 

This  castle  my  lord's  race  inhabited 
Beyond  all  date. 

Soto.  How  did  they  in  the  flood  ? 

Oli.    0,  they  were  fishes  then,  and  swam  unchoked 
They  were  advancing  from  their  primal' slime  — 
Hatched  by  the  sun  on  some  wide  river's  bank  — 


48  CALAYNOS. 

Through  worms,  fish,  frogs,  and  beasts,  upward  to 

men. 

They  lived  here  monkeys,  till  their  tails  wore  off, 
Then  became  Moors,  and  last  you  find  them  thus. 

Soto.    Why,  here  's  a  pedigree  for  potentates  ! 
That 's  why  they  quarter  beasts  upon  their  shields  ; 
Relations  they  to  all  these  rampant  brutes. 
Friend,  I  shall  dread  to  kill  the  next  mad  dog, 
For  fear  I  spill  some  near  relation's  blood. 

Oli.    Fear  you  to  kill  a  fox  !     You  were  a  fox  — 
A  cunning,  sly,  most  guilty-minded  fox  ; 
Your  master  was^  a  wolf,  a  dangerous  wolf, 
And  you,  sly  fox,  were  his  first  counsellor. — 
Fear  to  slay  foxes,  Soto  ! 

Solo.  What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

Oli.    Merely  that  men  were  one  time  animals. 
My  master  was  a  lion,  king  of  beasts  ; 
And  you  two,  fox  and  wolf,  once  stole  his  crown, 
And  thought  to  wear  it. 

Soto.  Friend,  you  speak  in  riddles. 

Oli.    0  no,  in  fables  I. 

Soto.  Speak  plainer,  ^Esop  ! 

Oli.    I  was  a  dog, —  a  faithful,  patient  cur,  — 
And    watched    my    master    while    his    eyes    were 

closed  ;  — 

For  you  had  given  the  king  a  sleeping  draught, 
Made  of  a  flower  called  Friendship  —  falsely  called  ! 
I  slew  the  fox  and  wolf,  regained  the  crown, 
And  placed  the  golden  circle  on  his  brow  :  — 
Now,  in  the  fable,  see  what  beast  was  I  !  [Exit.} 

Soto.    This   fellow  looks  through  botli  of  us  like 

glass  : 
lie  's  keener  than  my  lord,  and  wiser  far. 


CALAYNOS.  49 

Some  sunny  day,  we  '11  both  pitch  o'er  these  walls, 
Arid  he  will  be  the  man  that  breaks  our  necks. 
Ah  !  'tis  a  sad  thing,  Soto,  very  sad, 
To  be  knave's  knave,  e'en  though  he  be  a  Don  ! 
To  take  the  peril,  and  do  all  the  work, 
Then,  at  the  last,  come  in  for  all  the  kicks. 
My  lord  must  know  the  fable  which  I  heard  — 
He'll  sleep  the  lighter  for  it,  on  my  life  !  [Exit.] 


SCENE    II. 
Another  Room  in  the  Castle.     Enter  DONA  ALDA  and  DON  Luis. 

Don  Luis.    Pray,  noble  lady,  how  do  you  kill  time  ? 
The  constant  sameness  of  a  country  life 
Must   sometimes   bear   with   weight   on   your  high 
spirit. 

Dona  Alda.    Kill  time,  kill  time  !     Ne'er  breathe 

those  words  again  — 

At  least,  not  where  my  lord  Calaynos  hears  — 
If  on  his  good  opinion  you  set  store. 
He  uses  time  as  usurers  do  their  gold, 
Making  each  moment  pay  him  double  interest ; 
He  sighs  o'er  what  in  slumber  is  consumed  ; 
Robs  the  lead-lidded  god  of  many  an  hour, 
To  swell  his  heaping  stores  of  curious  learning. 

Don  L.    I  hope  rny  words  no  treason  to  your  ears  ; 
I  thought  not,  gentle  lady,  to  offend. 
But  I  have  lived  in  cities,  from  my  birth, 
Where  all  was  noise,  and  life,  and  varying  scene  — 
Recurrent  news  which  set  all  men  agape  — 
New  faces,  and  new  friends,  and  shows,  and  revels, 

VOL.  i.  4 


50  CALAYNOS. 

Mingled  in  constant  action  and  quick  change  — 
Which  things  drive  on  the  wheels  of  time  apace  ; 
Nor,  but  for  scanty  periods,  have  I  known 
The  changeless  round  of  a  calm  country  life. 
I  have  not  weighed  my  minutes  in  fine  scales, 
As  lapidaries  do  the  diamond's  dust ; 
Content  am  I  to  wear  life's  blazing  gem, 
Nor  care  what  fragments  fall  in  polishing. 

Dona  A.    I  have  not  passed  my  life  in  gayeties  ; 
Duties,  not  pleasures,  have  filled  up  my  days. 
My  lord's  domain  is  large,  and  peopled  thick  ; 
Though  most  are   prosperous,  some  are  old,  some 

poor. 

Those  that  can  hither  come,  I  here  relieve ; 
But  the  more  feeble  I  ride  forth  to  seek, 
Freighted  with  goods  which  ease  their  present  wants. 
Sometimes,  I  read  old  books  of  chivalry, 
And  fill  my  wandering  brain  with  idle  fears 
Of  dwarfs,  enchanters,  giants,  eldridge  knights, 
That  throng  the  crowded  world  of  old  romance. 
Sometimes,  I  prattle  with  my  town-bred  maid, 
A  girl  of  wit,  who  longs  to  see  Seville, 
And  has  so  filled  my  ears  with  her  desire, 
That  I  'd  fain  go,  if  but  to  still  her  tongue. 
Then  there  are  household  duties  infinite, 
Known  but  to  women,  which  I  must  discharge. 

Don  L.    So,  then,  at  times  you  are  an  almoner, 
At  times  a  romance-reader,  next  a  housewife. 
These  are  grave  things  to  spend  a  life  upon  ! 
But  where  's  Calaynos  in  this  catalogue  ?  — 
Does  he  not  cheer  you,  in  your  mournful  tasks  ? 

Dona  A.    Are  you  his  friend,  and  ask  me  this  of 
him  ? 


CALAYNOS.  fil 

He  is  a  scholar  of  the  strictest  caste  ; 

And  from  the  portal  of  yon  study  dim 

Seldom  comes  forth  into  my  little  world. 

He  is  a  man  of  grave  and  earnest  mind, 

Wrapped  up  in  things  beyond  my  range  of  thought ; 

Of  a  warm  heart,  yet  with  a  sense  of  duty  — 

As  how  he  must  employ  his  powerful  mind  — 

That  drives  all  empty  trifles  from  his  brain, 

And  bends  him  sternly  o'er  his  solemn  tasks. 

Things  nigh  impossible  are  plain  to  him  : 

His  trenchant  will,  like  a  fine-tempered  blade, 

With  unturned  edge  cleaves  through  the  baser  iron. — 

Such  is  my  lord,  a  man  above  mankind. 

Don  L.    And  can  you  feel  companionship  with  him, 
An  intellectual  demigod,  removed 
From  all  the  sympathies  that  mark  our  race  ? 
Can  your  warm  woman's  heart  outpour  its  griefs, 
Or  share  its  gladness,  with  a  soul  like  his  ? 
Can  you  unbidden  leap  upon  his  breast, 
And  laugh  or  weep,  as  suits  your  forward  mood  ? 
He  must  despise  all  smiles,  and  mock  all  tears  : 
Serene,  and  cold,  and  calm  —  an  ice-crowned  peak, 
Towering  supreme  amid  thought's  frozen  clouds, 
Above  the  thaws  that  flood  our  vales  of  life. 

Dona  A.    You  're  talking  of  rny  husband  I 

Don  L.  Of  my  friend. 

Let  me  be  your  friend,  lady,  I  beseech. 
I  fain  would  see  you  live  in  happiness  ; 
And  his  strange  coldness  cannot  bring  you  peace. 

Dona  A.   Husband  and  wife  need  not  a  go-between. 
I  did  not  say  I  lived  unhappily  ; 
Nor  that  Calaynos  wanted  in  his  love. 
Senor,  you  take  wild  license  with  my  speech, 


52  CALAYNOS. 

To  twist  its  meaning  to  so  base  an  end. 
I  love  him,  he  loves  me. 

Don  L.  Your  pardon,  madam  : 

'T  was  but  the  share  I  take  in  all  affairs, 
Wherein  my  friends  are  mixed.     I  meant  not  ill  ; 
Nor,  willingly,  your  harmless  words  would  wrest 
To  any  sinister  or  false  intent. 
;T  was  a  mistake  ;  but  such  a  one  might  hap 
In  the  warm  heart  of  any  loving  friend. 

Dona  A.    Well-meaning  ill  the  generous  must  for 
give. 

When  next  we  meet,  beware  how  you  uprake 
The  slumbering  ashes  in  the  fane  of  love, 
Lest  you  come  off  with  withered  hands  !  —  farewell. 

[Exit.-} 
Don  L.   Farewell,  thou  type  of  beauty,  whom  I  '11 

win  — 

Farewell,  thou  guileless  seat  of  embryo  love  — 
Farewell,  thou  temple  of  my  burning  heart  — 
Thou  thief  of  honor  —  thou  enchantress  fair, 
Who  hast  upset  my  nature  by  thy  art, 
And  killed  the  latest  seeds  of  good  in  me  ! 
Farewell,  all  gratitude,  and  friendship's  trust ! 
Come,  smiling  sin,  and  pour  thy  honeyed  words 

On  tongue  and  lips,  but  in  my  heart  pour  gall  ! 

Come,  thin-robed  sin,  that  show'st  thy  loveliness, 
But  hid'st  thy  wickedness  and  keen  remorse  ! 
That  I  may  win  my  love,  and  hate  her  lord  — 
0,  when  had  love  a  conscience  or  a  fear  I          [Exit.} 


CALAYNOS.  53 


SCENE    III. 

The  Study  of  CALAYNOS.     CALAYNOS  reading,  OLIVER  transcrib 
ing  a  'manuscript. 

Oliver.    (Rising.)    My  lord,  this  learned  manuscript 

has  raised 

A  crowd  of  strange  conjectures  in  my  mind, 
That  rush  and  jostle  through  my  wildered  brain, 
In  wild  confusion,  without  settled  purpose. 

Calaynos.    (Rising.)    What  part  stirred  up  this  riot 
in  your  head  ? 

Oli.    That  part  in  which  it  hints  at  God's  design 
In  the  creation  of  the  earth  and  man. 
I  oft  have  wondered  how  omniscient  God 
Could  take  delight  in  forming  things  like  men : 
So  fall  of  meanness,  yet  so  full  of  pride  — 
So  strong  in  thought,  and  yet  so  weak  in  act  — 
So  foul  in  nature,  so  o'ergrown  with  sin, 
Yet  destined  for  a  sphere  'neath  Him  alone. 
What  pleasure  finds  He  in  our  paltry  deeds, 
Begot  of  selfishness  and  headstrong  will  ? 
What  feeling  moves  Him  when  the  p'uny  thing 
Lifts  up  his  voice,  and  boldly  rails  at  Him  ? 
How  deems  He,  when  He  sees  the  myriad  souls 
That  speed  to  death — their  destiny  forgot, 
The  purpose  of  their  being  unachieved  — 
Seeking,  unawed,  a  hell  of  their  own  choosing  ? 
Why  did  He  form  so  fair  a  stagffc  as  this, 
To  dance  His  trifling  puppet,  man,  upon  ? 
And,  last,  does  not  this  whole  creation  seem 
'Neath  His  contempt,  so  far  above  it  He  ? 


54  CALAYNOS. 

Gal.  Stop,  Oliver  ;  you  tread  on  dangerous  ground, 
A  mental  bog,  that  quakes  beneath  your  feet. 
These  words  would  seem  to  come  from  humbleness, 
And  low  opinion  of  yourself  and  man  ; 
Yet  are  engendered  by  the  rankest  pride, 
Arrayed  in  robes  of  meek  humility  — 
Stop  !  the  next  step  is  infidelity. 
Contempt  for  man  begets  contempt  for  God  : 
He  who  hates  man  must  scorn  the  Source  of  man, 
And  challenge,  as  unwise,  his  awful  Maker. 
The  next  step  doubt ;  and  then  comes  unbelief. 
Last,  you  raise  man  above  all  else  besides, 
And  make  him  chiefest  in  the  universe. 
So,  from  a  self-contempt,  grows  impious  pride, 
That  swells  your  first-thought  pigmy  to  a  giant, 
And  gives  the  puffed-up  atom  fancied  sway. 
God  is  !    Philosophy  here  ends  her  flight ; 
This  is  the  height  and  term  of  human  reason : 
A  fact  that,  like  the  whirling  Norway  pool, 
Draws  to  its  centre  all  things,  swallows  all. 
How  can  you  know  God's  nature  to  Himself? 
How  learn  His  purpose  in  creating  man  ? 
What 's  ultimate  to  man,  remains  concealed : 
Enough  for  you,  to  know  that  here  you  are  — 
A  thought  of  God,  made  manifest  on  earth. 
Ah,  yet  His  voice  is  heard  within  the  heart ; 
Faint,  but  oracular,  it  whispers  there  : 
Follow  that  voice,  love  all,  and  trust  to  Him. 
0,  learn,  dear  Olivetti  pity  one, 
Who  wanders  in  this  world  without  a  faith 
In  something  greater  than  his  feeble  self! 

Oli.    Yet  thoughts,  like  these,  will  rise  in  spite  of 
me. 


CALAYNOS.  55 

Gal.    I  know  it ;  His  the  taint  of  primal  sin, 
That  mingles  with  each  thought,  mars  every  act, 
That  stains  our  very  good  with  something  ill ; 
And,  like  the  poison  which  abounds  in  plants, 
Mingles  its  portion  with  our  healthiest  food. 

Oli.    Does  not  this  knowledge  of  man's  sinfulness 
Awake  a  doubt  of  individuals, 
And  make  you  cautious,  when  you  deal  with  men  ? 

Gal.    No  ;  I  have  predetermined  trust  in  man, 
That  never  alters,  till  I  find  him  false. 
I  am  above  the  common  herd  in  power  ; 
No  rogue  can  wrong,  but  in  my  ample  purse  ; 
Which  I  scarce  feel,  which,  had  he  asked,  I  'd  given. 

Oli.    7T  is  all  in  vain  !  I  cannot  raise  a  doubt 
In  his  ingenuous  nature.  —  There  's  no  hope. 
I  have  but  slender  grounds  to  doubt  Don  Luis  ; 
And  my  own  doubts,  perchance,  may  work  me  ill  — 
Yet  will  I  go  to  death,  if  he  's  not  false  ! 
I,  from  Seville,  will  gain  the  facts  I  want ; 
Meantime  —  (Aside.)     My  lord,  much  of  your  friend 

you  '11  see  ; 

For  you  must  hunt,  and  feast,  to  pass  his  time, 
And  show  all  courtesies  that  may  befit. 

Gal.    Nay  ;  he  's  too  dear  a  friend  to  make  a  stran 
ger. 

I  will  divide  my  castle  and  my  wealth  ; 
Let  him  use  each,  as  suits  his  present  mood. 
We  will  not  clash  in  interests  :  he  may  hunt, 
I  study ;  thus,  each  may  enjoy  his  bent. 
Then  Dona  Alda  will  be  much  with  him. 

Oli.    Hum,  hum  !  I  like  not  that,  I  like  not  that. 

[Aside.] 

Cla.    She  is  so  full  of  life,  so  fond  of  change  ; 


56 


CALAYXOS. 


They  two  can  put  their  restless  heads  together, 
Unhood  their  thoughts  at  every  whim  that  flies, 
And  chase  the  quarry  till  they  bring  it  down-. 

Oli.    Heaven  grant,  these  coupled  falcons  prove 
not  haggards  !  [-f«rfc.] 

(CALAYNOS  reads,  OLIVER  writes.     Scene  closes.) 


SCENE    IV. 
A  Room  in  the  Castle.     Enter  MARTINA. 

Martina.    I  wonder  where  the  strangers  can  have 

gone  ! 

I  've  searched  the  castle  o'er,  to  find  them  out ; 
Yet,  save  the  glimpse  I  caught  as  they  came  in, 
Have  tried,  in  vain,  to  get  a  peep  at  them. 
The  master  has  a  gay  and  courtly  air, 
Which  proves  him  of  high  birth,  and  liberal  training. 
The  man,  too,  bears  himself  in  proper  trim, 
And  shines,  although  reflected  is  his  light. 
'T  is  nigh  as  well  to  serve  a  gentleman 
As  to  be  gentle  born  ;  to  catch  his  wa}rs, 
Follow  his  manners,  and  imbibe  his  tastes ; 
Learn  what  is  graceful,  what  to  be  eschewed  ; 
Garner  the  grain,  and  fling  aside  the  chafi": 
Till,  in  the  end,  the  copy  may  become 
A  finer  work  than  the  original. 
I  Ve  half  a  mind  to  fall  headlong  in  love  ; 
Certes  I  will,  if  he  show  sign  of  fire. 

(Enter  SOTO.) 

Soto.    Good-day,  fair  maid  !      We  have  not  met 
before. 


CALAYNOS.  57 

Mar.    Good-day,   fair  sir  !  —  the  better  since  we 

meet. 
I  '11  show  him  I  can  speak  as  fair  as  he.  [jlsifc.'} 

Soto.    Are  you  a  dweller  'neath  this  roof  above, 
Or  but  a  passing  angel  here  alit  ? 

Mar.    Ay,  and  a  treader  of  this  floor  beneath  ! 
Throw  off"  your  lofty  style.  — I  'm  not  a  fool, 
Nor  a  plain  country  maiden,  as  you  think. 

Soto.    Plain  you  are  not ;  that  can  I  truly  say  — 
I  hope  a  maiden. 

Mar.  As  you  are  a  knave  ! 

What  if  I  'm  not  a  maid  ?  —  What  if  a  wife  ? 
1 'm  still  my  lady's  maid,  say  what  you  will. 
What  if  a  widow  ?  Would  you  like  me  less  ? 

Soto.    Shall  I  speak  plainly  ? 

Mar.  Plainly  as  you  think. 

Soto.    Then,  if  a  maid,  I  hold  you  'bove  all  price. 
If  you  're  a  wife,  keep  your  dear  husband  hence  ; 
I  'd  spit  the  villain,  as  I  would  a  toad  ! 
If  you  're  a  widow,  then  I  think  of  you 
As  of  a  nut,  when  all  the  kernel  7s  gone  — 
As  of  a  fruit,  when  all  the  juice  is  dried  — 
As  of  a  feast,  when  all  the  meats  are  eat  — 
As  fair  outside,  but  rifled  all  within  ! 
An  unclaimed  hawk  may  come  to  know  the  lure, 
And  we  may  teach  the  haggard  as  we  list ; 
But  when  once  broken,  by  an  unskilled  hand, 
She  gains  such  tricks  as  training  cannot  mend. 

Mar.    Why,  the  dog 's  mad  in  love  !     (jiside.)    I  am 
a  maid. 

Soto.    Let  me  catch  breath,  and  thank  you  for  those 
words ! 


58  CALAYNOS. 

My  blood  runs  free,  that  nigh  became  a  mass, 
Congealed  and  stagnant,  with  my  freezing  doubts ! 

Mar.    Come  from  your  stilts.     I  fain  would  like 

you,  sir; 

But  you  must  be  familiar,  not  too  lofty. 
You  fly  your  words  above  my  simple  ken. 
If  you  '11  make  love,  why,  make  it  like  a  man, 
Not  like  a  demigod.     We  have  enough 
Of  word-inflated  mortals  in  our  house.  — 
How  do  you  like  this  place  ? 

Soto.  0,  past  all  bounds  — 

That  is  for  you ;  for  one  thing  else  I  hate  it. 

Mar.    What  thing  is  that  ? 

Soto.  Be  secret — Oliver. 

Mar.    You  hate  him  ?     I  do  too,  most  bitterly. 
The  scurvy  fool,  who  fain  would  be  a  sage ! 

Solo.    The  prying  knave,  who  has  discovered  more 
Than  his  dull  lord,  with  all  his  learning,  could  ! 
Things  are  at  pretty  pass,  when  servants  grow 
Above  their  masters  —  saving  you  and  me. 

Mar.    Pray  tell  me  all. 

Soto.  Well,  let  us  walk  apart : 

Some  ear,  less  honest,  our  discourse  might  catch. 
I  '11  tell  you  all,  for  we  both  pull  one  way.     [Exeunt.} 


SCENE  V. 

The  Park  before  the  Castle.     Enter  DON  Luis. 

Don  Luis.   The  means,  the  means  !  —  My  love  is 

cold  as  snow  ; 

I  dare  not  tell  her  what  I  burst  to  say. 
But  she  may  change  ;  as  Hecla  sends  forth  fire 


CALAYNOS.  59 

From  out  the  ice,  which  hides  its  burning  heart. 

But  how  ?     Alas,  she  knows  not  of  my  love  ; 

Can  take  no  interest  in  me,  uninformed. 

Did  she  but  know,  that  might  arouse  her  heart ; 

For  half  the  love  of  earth  from  this  source  springs : 

First  woman  's  flattered  at  the  heat  she  wakes, 

Then  falls  in  love,  to  rid  herself  of  debt. 

I  dare  not  tell  her ;  that  might  blast  the  whole, 

And  drive  me  from  her  presence  unrepaid. 

Yet  she  must  know  ;  but  by  some  other  means  — 

Not  know,  but  doubt  it.     Let  that  thought  once  in,* 

No  band  of  angels  e'er  can  drive  it  but, 

No  force  usurp  its  sway.     I  'm  well  convinced 

She  bears  no  love  for  her  great  booby  lord  : 

If  she  be  secret,  he  can  ne'er  suspect — • 

Too  busy  up  in  heaven  to  think  of  earth. 

There  's  Oliver  ;  — I  '11  give  him  food  for  doubts, 

Which,  if  he  breathe,  I,  through  the  influence 

Wielded  by  me  above  his  heaven-rapt  lord, 

Will  drive  the  beggar  forth.     0,  friendship  dear, 

Through  thee  I  '11  work,  and  gain  my  end  at  last. 

(Enter  SOTO.) 

Soto.    I  have  been  looking  for  you  far  and  near. 
I  've  all  the  castle's  secrets  on  my  thumb. 

Don  L.    What  know  you,  Soto  ? 

Soto.  Nay,  what  know  I  not  ? 

I  know,  my  lord,  all  that  one  girl  could  say 
In  scarce  an  hour  ;  but  what  would  pose  ten  men, 
And  they  fast  talkers,  in  a  day  to  tell. 

Don  L.    Who  gossiped  thus  ? 

Soto.  Martina. 

Don  L.  Who  is  she  ? 


00  CALAYNOS. 

Soto.    The  confidential  maiden  of  my  lady  ; 
A  girl  of  wit,  and  most  complete  in  form, 
With  thoughts  and  aims  above  the  place  she  holds. 
She,  too,  abhors  the  crafty  secretary  ; 
And  when  I  told  her  how  I  scorned  the  wretch, 
She  loosed  her  eager  tongue,  told  everything 
Which  she  had  gathered  since  she  first  came  here. 
At  last  we  fell  in  love,  and  there  we  rest. 

Don  L.    Go  on,  good  Soto,  cram  her  to  the  brim, 
Love  her  as  you  have  never  loved  before  ; 
Or  rather  make  her  love  you,  that  were  best. 

1  too  have  fallen  in  love. 

Soto.  With  whom,  my  lord  ? 

Don  L.    With  Dona  Alda. 

Soto.  Are  you  much  in  love  ? 

Don  L.    In  love  to  death  ! 

Soto.  0,  that  is  nothing  strange. 

You've  sickened  for  a  score,  died  for  a  score  ; 
Till  the  next  passion  brought  you  health  and  life. 
There  was  Con  stanza,  Clara,  Viola, 
Maria,  Isabella,  Phillipa  — 

Don  L.    Peace  !  you  are  crying  this  she-merchan 
dise 

As  tradesmen  do  their  wares.     I  tell  you,  knave, 
The  love  which  now  I  feel  gnaws  me  like  hunger  ! 

Soto.    They  feed  too  well  to  give  that  figure  force 
In  this  fat  castle.     But  a  week  ago, 
When  I  was  thin  and  famished  in  Seville, 
Such  words  had  drawn  forth  tears  of  sympathy. 
But  there  's  the  husband  loves  you  'bove  all  heights. 

Don  L.    And  here  am  I,  that  hate  him  'neath  all 
depths. 

Soto.    Natural   enough  :  you  boar  it  in  your  blood. 


CALAYNOS.  6.1 

I  lately  heard  a  ballad,  ages  old  — 
A  -scurvy  ballad  —  a  foul,  lying  ballad  — 
Which  told  how  some  great  ancestor  of  his 
Drove  round  Granada's  laughter-shaken  walls 
Kinsman  of  yours.     Not  with  a  manly  sword  — 
No,  that  were  fair  —  with  a  base  scourge  he  did  it. 

Don  L.    What  mean  you  ? 

Soto.  He  's  of  Moorish  blood. 

Don  L.  You  fool ! 

Solo.    Witness  his  Moorish  name,  Calaynos. 

Don  L.  True. 

Who  told  you  this  ? 

Soto.  Martina  told  me,  senor. 

'T  is  a  mere  taint  he  bears  paternally  : 
Though  very  slight,  yet,  in  the  pious  eyes 
Of  the  hidalgos  of  Castilian  breed, 
Worse  than  all  crimes  the  devil  ever  did. 
'T  is  a  grave  secret,  not  to  be  divulged. 

Don  L.    Ah,  now  I  think,  I  heard  it  when  a  boy. 
What  of  his  lady  —  is  she  Moorish  too  ? 

Soto.    No,  of  the  purest  blood. 

Don  L.  Why,  this  is  strange  ! 

Soto.    Her  sire  was  proud,  but  sunk  in  poverty  ; 
The  lord  was  rich,  but  of  the  unclean  blood  ; 
And  so  they  compromised,  and  struck  a  trade. 

Don  L.    Then  the  Moor  bought  her  ? 

Soto.  So  Martina  says. 

That  's  why  he  would  not  take  her  to  Seville, 
For  fear  she  'd  learn  what  half  of  Spain  well  knows. 

Don  L.    You  're  sure  she  knows  it  not  ? 

Soto.  Who  'd  dare  to  tell  ? 

He  'd  pitch  the  bold  informer  in  the  moat, 
To  drink  his  health  :  he  's  more  than  sovereign  here. 


62  CALAYNOS. 

Don  L.    Now,  lovely  Akla,  I  have  hold  on  thee, 
Shall  draw  thee  to  me,  should  all  else  fall  short. 

[Aside.] 

Go,  Soto,  tell  this  new-made  love  of  yours 
That  I  'm  neck-deep  in  love  for  her  fair  lady. 
You  need  not  tell  her  to  be  secret.  —  Go  ! 

Solo.    Here 's  mischief  brewing,     (jlside.)    I  obey 

you,  senor.  [Exit.] 

Don  L.    Thanks,   love !      This    news  outgoes  my 

wildest  hope. 

I  doubt  no  more,  the  thing*  is  certainty  ; 
The  chase  is  simple,  and  the  conquest  sure. 
Sure  'tis  a  virtuous  deed  to  set  her  right ; 
To  show  this  cozening  Moor  in  all  his  guilt, 
In  all  the  blackness  of  his  foul  deceit, 
To  her  dear  eyes.  —  Good  Lord !  a  boy  might  tri 
umph  ! 

Woe,  woe,  Calaynos !  this  sole  crime  of  thine 
Shall  draw  upon  thy  head  a  double  grief!         [Exit.] 


SCENE    VI. 
A  Room  in  the  Castle.     Enter  MARTINA  and  SOTO. 

Soto.    There  bloom  twin  rose-buds  'twixt  your  nose 

and  chin, 
That  I  'd  fain  taste. 

Martina.  Kind  sir,  beware  the  thorns  ! 

[Showing  her  nails.] 

Soto.    1  Ve  felt  the  thorns,  thoy  rankle  in  my  heart ; 
Naught  but  thy  lips  can  draw  their  venom  out. 


CALAYNOS.  f»3 

Mar.    Your  act  has  bruised  the  heel  of  your  desire, 
So  close  it  treads  behind.  —  Dost  love  me,  sir  ? 

Soto.    Love   thee  !    I  love  thee  past  the  flight  of 

thought. 

Words  cannot  tell  thee  —  nay,  I  cannot  think, 
I  cannot  truly  to  myself  conceive  — 
Cannot  set  bounds  to,  cannot  understand 
The  one  idea  which  o'er  me  reigns  supreme, 
And  bows  me  at  thy  feet —  (Kneels.)     I  can  but  feel 
The  might  of  that  strong  spirit.  —  Useless  words  ! 

[Rises.] 

I  see  them  hat'st  me,  see  thou  think'st  me  mad  — 
Know  thou  wilt  scorn  me  —  send  me  from  thee  far, 
To  spend  my  days  in  mortified  despair. 

0,  what  a  dolt  was  I,  to  tell  thee  this  ! 
But  my  full  heart  drove  on  my  silly  tongue. 
Farewell,  forever ! 

Mar.  Stay  ;  I  hate  thee  not. 

Soto.    But  dost  thou  love  me  ?     Say  that  word, 

orl- 

Mar.    I  love  thee. 

Solo.  Wilt  thou  ever  love  me  thus  ? 

Mar.    Till  soul  and  body  fall  apart,  I  will. 
Soto.    0  joy,  0  love  !  Success  beyond  my  hopes  ! 

1,  like  a  reckless  gamester,  staked  my  all 

On  this  last  throw,  and,  see,  the  game  is  won  ! 
Mar.    Play   not   again ;    or   you    may   lose   your 

winnings. 
Soto.    Fear  not,  dear  maid  ;  I  'm  rich  in  what  I  've 

won. 

But  dost  thou  know,  Martina,  that  we  two 
Are  not  the  only  lovers  here  ? 

Mar.  How  so  ? 


(Jl  CALAYNOS. 

Solo.    My  lord  thy  lady  loves,  as  I  love  thee, 
And  she  must  love  my  master,  as  thou  lov'st ; 
Or  we  this  dismal  house  can  never  fly  ; 
Here  he  '11  abide  till  doomsday.  — Dost  thou  see  ? 
We  must  contrive  to  win  her  to  his  love  ? 
For,  if  she  fly,  then  in  her  train  fly  we. 

Mar.    She  loves  him  not ;  yet  may  be  brought  to 

it.- 
I  '11  do  my  utmost ;  for  thy  sake,  not  his. 

Soto.    Where  dost  thou  lodge  ? 

Mar.  Just  next  my  lady's  room, 

And  Hymen  keeps  the  key.  —  Fair  sir,  good-night ! 

[Exit.} 

Soto.    She  's  a  brave  wench  ;  but  somewhat  over- 
prudent.  — 

Well,  if  I  wed  her,  I  '11  not  mate  a  fool. 
Now  to  Don  Luis  ;  let  him  watch  his  game, 
If  he  will  play  at  hazard  with  the  Moor : 
There  '11  be  swords  drawn  before  this  cast  is  o'er. 

[Jbtf.] 


CALAYNOS.  65 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  Great  Hall  in  the  Castle.    Enter  DON  Luis  and 

SOTO. 

Don  Luis.    YET  I  much  doubt  the  power  Martina 

holds. 

In  small  affairs  her  influence  may  be  great ; 
But  in  a  matter  like  the  one  now  toward, 
I  fear  she  must  come  off  with  sorry  grace. 
I  value  virtue,  though  I 'have  it  not, 
And  know  its  power  to  set  all  wiles  at  naught ; 
Heart-rooted  good  may  pass  through  fire  unscathed, 
And  chastity  can  keep  a  fiend  at  bay, 
With  its  pure,  sinless  front. 

Solo.  Bravo,  my  lord  ! 

Here  's  a  fine  speech,  to  come  from  one  like  you  ! 

Don  L.    Soto,  I  Ve  trod  all  paths  of  sin  and  guilt, 
And  know  the  wickedness  and  crimes  of  men ; 
Yet  would  have  been  a  fool,  had  I  not  seen 
That  virtue  may  exist,  though  rare  indeed. 
I  tell  you,  I  have  met  it  everywhere, 
In  halls  and  hovels  ;  and  have  oft  retired, 
Abashed  and  conquered,  from  its  injured  look. 

Soto.    My  lord,  if  thus  you  reason  'gainst  yourself, 
As  if  persuading  from  your  first  design, 
Give  up  the  chase  :  I  '11  never  counsel  guilt. 

Don  L.    No,  by  the  gods !  you  misconceive  my 
aim. 

VOL.  i.  5 


C6  CAI.AYNOS. 

Fools  come  to  naught,  who  follow  cheating  hope ; 
I  ever  look  at  the  dark  side  of  things, 
And  weigh  the  chances  'gainst  my  own  success : 
So  bring  to  enterprise  a  wary  eye, 
Prepared  for  every  stop  that  balks  my  way. 
Naught  but  long-suffering  good,  that  triumphs  most 
AVhen  most  oppressed  by  adverse  circumstance, 
Can  'scape  the  snares  that  threaten  Alda's  feet. 

Soto.    Martina  calls  her  weak,  of  fickle  mind, 
Curious  for  change,  and  discontented  here  ; 
Unstable  in  design,  thence   easily  led. 

Don  L.    She  may  be  thus,   and  yet  be   pure   as 
heaven. 

Solo.    Monstrous,  my  lord  !    Do  you  not  blush  with 

shame, 

To  look  on  virtue,  and  dissect  it  thus  ? 
If  I  e'er  thought  of  good  I  'd  turn  a  monk. 

Don  L.    You  say  Martina  knows  no  ill  of  her, 
No  sin,  the  slightest  —  not  a  hook  or  loop, 
Whereby  to  lead  her  on  ?     Mayhap  her  lord 
Has  told  his  Moorish  birth,  in  some  soft  mood,— 
Has  reconciled  the  stain,  and  won  regard. 

Soto.    Martina  gives  but  one  reply  to  that ; 
She  says  her  lady  never  had  a  hint 
Of  how  Calaynos  wronged  her  ;  —  rest  on  this. 

Don  L.    'Tis  well,  'tis  well ;  the  sharper  then  the 

stroke, 

The  keener  then  the  pang,  the  more  she  loves.  — 
Nay,  nay,  she  loves  him  not  —  to  that  I'll  swear; 
But  this  will  tear  respect  and  awe  away. 
Martina  must  contrive  we  meet  to-night ; 
And  you  stand  ready  at  the  horses'  heads. 
If  you  would  take  your  baggage,  have  her  prompt, 


CALAYNOS.  67 

And  pack  her  safe  upon  another  horse  ; 
While  you  ride  guard,  to  hinder  all  pursuit : 
My  steed  bears  double.  —  See,  the  lady  comes. 

(Enter   DONA  ALDA   and  MARTINA.      SOTO   and  MARTINA  talk 
apart.) 

Lady,  I  waited  to  address  you  here. 
I  on  the  morrow  for  Seville  depart. 

Dona  Alda.    So  soon !    Calaynos  knows  not  your 
intent  ? 

Don  L.    Not  yet.     An  urgent  matter  calls  me  off. 
But  ere  I  go  —  if,  lady,  you'll  permit  — 
Some  words,  deep  freighted  with  your  happiness, 
Must  claim  a  notice. 

Dona  A.  Speak,  sir  —  I  attend. 

Don  L.    Not  now ;  to-night,  if  you  will  meet  me 
here. 

Dona  A.    Speak  now  :  why  wait  till  night  ? 

Don  L.  Nay,  bring  your  maid  ; 

Let  her  remain  in  ear-shot,  should  you  call. 
I  mean  no  wrong ;   I  fain  would  do  you  right. 

Dona  A.    Sir,   on   such  terms,   I  grant  what  you 
request. 

Don  L.    Adieu,  till  then  —  poor  lady  ! 

[Exeunt  DON  Luis  and  SOTO.] 

Dona  A.  What  means  he  ? 

"  Poor  lady  !  "    -This  is  strange  beyond  a  dream. 
Why  does  he  pity  me  —  why  look  so  sad, 
With  so  much  pain  and  trouble  on  his  brow ; 
As  if  he  bore  a  load  of  secret  woe, 
That  must  have  birth  with  many  a  fearful  pang  ? 
I  '11  seek  Calaynos,  and  entreat  advice  — 
No,  no,  'twill  vex  him.     Sure  he  means  no  wrong 
For  full-eyed  pity  never  troops  with  guilt. 


68  CALAYNOS. 

Martina,  did  you  mark  Don  Luis'  plight  ?  — 
How  quick  he  left,  as  if  to  save  me  pain  ? 

Martina.    He  seemed  dejected,  and  o'ercome  with 
grief. 

Dona  A.    Can  you  conjecture  aught  ? 

Mar.  Not  much,  nor  clearly. 

Dona  A.    What  do  you  think  ? 

Mar.  I  think  he  is  in  love. 

Dona  A.    Pshaw  !  that 's  the  offspring  of  two  silly 

heads  — 

Soto  and  you  are  ridden  to  death  with  fancies  — 
He  is  too  wise  to  love  without  a  hope. 
Men  who  have  known  the  world  as  long  as  he, 
But  fall  in  love  with  great  estates  or  gold  — 
Taking  the  cncumbrant  maiden  as  an  ill ; 
And  not  with  peril,  such  as  he  must  brook 
Who  dares  to  love  the  wife  of  great  Calaynos. 

Mar.    Yet  such  things  have  been. 

Dona  A.  0,  yes  ;  sung  in  ballads. 

Mar.    Ay,  and  in  real  life,  lady :    Queens  of  Spain 
Have  had  their  paramours. 

Dona  A.  So  might  it  be, 

Yet  never  hap  to  bride  of  a  Calaynos. 
No,  no  ;  some  solemn  mystery  bore  him  down, 
Which  he  must  tell,  though  he  'd  fain  shun  the  act. 

Mar.     What    mystery    deeper    than    an    untold 

love  ? 

What  keener  pang  than  telling  in  despair? 
Find  me  a  grief,  to  rend  a  loving  heart, 
More  cruel  than  separation  without  hope  ! 
Believe  me,  lady,  this  is  root  of  all. 

Dona  A.    Ha  !  think  you  so  ?  —  Why,  then,  I  meet 
him  not. 


CALAYNOS.  69 

I  '11  not  put  torture  to  his  torigueless  love  ; 
I  will  not  tempt  him  to  dare  certain  death, 
For  the  poor  consolation  words  afford. 

Mar.    I   may    be   wrong-  —  perchance   I   may   be 

wrong  — 

Nay,  now  I  think,  I  cannot  but  be  wrong. 
He  would  conceal  his  love  from  outward  show 
Till  the  last  moment  —  I  am  sure  I  'm  wrong : 
Yet  am  I  sure  he  loves  you,  though  he  go 
Without  a  sign  to  show  the  love  he  feels. 

Dona  A.    I  will  not  hate  him  for  the  love  he  bears  ; 
Nor  will  I  fan  my  secret  vanity 
With  his  despairing  sighs,  as  women  do : 
No  man  can  say  whom  he  will  love,  whom  hate  — 
The  act  o'erleaps  his  will ;  and  a  pure  heart, 
That  burns  to  ashes,  yet  conceals  its  pain, 
For  fear  it  mar  its  hopeless  source  of  love, 
Is  not  to  be  despised,  nor  lightly  held. 

Mar.    You  are  too  cruel,  to  gain  and  not  return. 

Dona  A.    I  am  too  just  to  soil  Calaynos'  honor. 

Mar.    I  never  thought  of  him. 

Dona  A.  Ne'er  thought  of  him  ! 

My  chiefest  spring  and  stimulant  of  good, 
Before  whose  face  crime  takes  an  humble  guise, 
And  blushes  at  its  meanness  —  never  thought ! 

Mar.    My  love  for  you  admits  no  rival  cares. 

Dona  A.    And   can    you   separate   my   lord   from 

me  ?  — 

What  bears  on  him,  has  double  weight  for  me. 
Did  I  not  think  this  coming  interview, 
Through  me,  held  things  of  moment  to  my  lord, 
I  ne'er  had  granted  it;  for  he  shall  hear, 
}Sre  I  have  time  for  thought,  the  substance  of  it. 


70  CALAYXOS. 

Mar.    'T  is  but  time  lost :  —  I  will  not  urge  her 

more, 

Lest  I  disgust  her  with  my  Soto's  lord. 
She  ever  flies  from  Luis  to  Calaynos ; 
And  when  1  name  the  Don,  she  bends  her  thoughts 
Full  on  her  lord,  and  speaks  of  him  alone. 
Her  admiration  has  nigh  grown  to  love. 
Luis  must  plead  to-night  —  pray  heaven  he  win  ! 

[Aside.} 

Dona  A.    What  are  you  muttering,  girl  ? 

Mar.  I  hummed  a  tune, 

Of  a  poor  squire  who  loved  a  noble  lady. 

Dona  A.    Heaven  grant  the  lady  was  a  maid,  not 
wife  ! 

Mar.    I  cannot  tell.  —  When  comes  this  interview  ? 

Dona  A.    What  hour?  —  0,  I  forgot.  —  He  named 
no  hour. 

Mar.    Well,  say  at  two. 

Dona  A.  But  that  is  very  late. 

Mar.    The  better  ;  for  no  listeners  will  be  near. 
That  base-born  cur,  that  prying  Oliver, 
Roams   o'er  the   house,   like   a   flushed    hound   on 

scent.  — 

I  wonder  what  the  villain  would  nose  out  ? 
He  counts  us  all,  but  his  dear  lord,  as  game. 
I  vow,  I  have  no  peace  :  at  every  door, 
Through  every  glass,  I  see  his  ugly  face. 

Dona  A.    He  is,  you  know,  Calaynos'  Mercury  ; 
Who,  through  him,  watches  that  his  guest  is  served. 

Mar.    Well,  then,  I  '11  say  at  two.         [Exit  hastily.'] 

Dona  A.  Stay,  stay,  Martina  !  — 

She  hears  me  not.     One  hour  is  as  another  ; 
7T  will  be  no  darker  whon  two  strikes  than  nine. 


CALAYNOS.  71 

I  would  not  trust  this  man  at  such  a  time, 

Having  suspicion  that  he  bears  me  love, 

Did  I  not  hear  his  virtues  told  to  me, 

From  morn  till  eve,  by  my  most  thoughtful  lord. 

If  I  should  ask  Calayrios,  he  ;d  say  —  Go  ; 

There  is  no  fear  where  good  Don  Luis  comes. 

Trust  him,  my  child  ;  for  he  is  honor's  soul ! 

Well,  well,  I  '11  go  —  I  marvel  what  it  bodes  !  [Exit.} 


SCENE    II. 
The  Study  of  CALAYNOS.     CALAYNOS  and  OLIVER. 

Oliver.    When  does  Don  Luis  leave  ? 

Calaynos.  Not  soon,  I  hope. 

His  visit  here  has  brought  the  color  back 
To  his  wan  cheek,  and  lent  a  healthy  cast 
To  thoughts  that  sickened  o'er  his  former  woes. 
We  surely  may  predict  much  good  of  him, 
When  he  returns  to  mingle  with  mankind : 
He  will  not  rust  in  ease  ;  he  '11  speak  and  act, 
And  do  the  utmost  God  has  given  him  power. 
Ah,  he  who  rests  in  sloth  bears  half  the  guilt 
Of  him  who  goes  about  to  compass  ill ; 
For  heaven  has  lent  him  strength  to  conquer  sin, 
Which,  through  disuse,  lets  evil  run  unchecked. 
He  who  has  power  to  plant  one  seed  of  truth, 
And  does  it  not,  is  nigh  as  bad  as  he 
Who,  with  broad  hand,  sows  falsehood  through  the 
land. 

Oli.    I  hope  with  you  ;  and  yet  I  fear,  rny  lord. 

Gal.  .  Fear  what  ?     Speak    out.  —  Again  at   your 
suspicions  ! 


72  CALAYNO&. 

OH.   I  have  received  some  letters  from  Seville, 
Which  place  your  guest  in  no  too  virtuous  light 
They  say  — 

Gal          Before  you  speak,  pray  answer  me.— 
From  whom  this  news,  and  how  was  it  obtained  ? 
I  said  you  'd  surfeit  doubt,  if  food  you  sought ; 
And  here  is  proof.  —  Go  on  ;  whence  carne  this  news  ? 

Oli.    From   a  fast  friend,  who  loves  you  as  my 

master : 

A  man  whom  anxious  guilt  would  ne'er  suspect 
Of  saying  aught  beyond  the  pale  of  truth. 
He  gained  intelligence  from  public  rumor  — 
Why,  it  is  broad  and  common  as  the  sun  ; 
But  chiefly  from  those  very  creditors 
Who  got  your  gold,  and  then  enjoyed  the  trick. 

Cal.    And  shall  I  doubt  my  friend  for  knaves  so 

base, 

Who  thus  avow  they  practised  villany  ? 
Did  he  not  tell  me  of  the  cunning  traps 
In  which  they  snared  him,  in  which  now  you  fall  ? 
If  they  're  so  lost  to  shame,  as  to  confess 
That  through  a  trick  they  wronged  my  confidence, 
How  shall  I  now  believe,  though  seeming  true, 
The  tangled  tale  they  blush  not  to  unfold  ? 

Oli.    Nay,  sir,  if  you  fling  logic  in  my  teeth, 
And  reason  facts  to  falsehoods,  I  have  done. 

Cal.    Can  you  not  mask  your  thoughts,  if  they 
offend  ? 

Oli.    Next  God  comes  truth,  and  in  that  rank  I 
love  it ! 

Cal.    Sir,  I  have  borne  unmurmuring,  day  by  day, 
Your  wily  hints,  though  wounded  to  the  quick. — 
I  have  been  vexed  .by  your  sly,  boyish  tricks, 


CALAYNOS.  73 

That  sought  to  lead  a  man  of  twice  your  years : 
I  told  you  once  before,  I  tell  you  now, 
That  guilty  cunning  which  preys  on  itself, 
Content  with  proof  would  make  a  sophist  stare, 
You  have  mistaken  for  wisdom.  —  Leave  rne,  sir  — 
To-morrow  I  shall  want  a  secretary. 

Oil.    Good  heaven  !  my  lord,  you  would  not  cast 

rne  off? 
You  would  not  thrust  me  on  this  evil  world  ?  — 

Gal.    You  will  see  all  the  traps,  shun  all  the  snares, 
And  prosper  bravely,  as  the  wily  do.  — 
Nay,  now  I  think,  I  have  .another  house 
Beyond  the  mountains,  out  of  sight  and  hearing : 
Go  there  and  dwell  —  the  pension  is  the  same. 

Oli.    Spare  me,  my  lord  !    Be  just,  if  you  are  cruel ; 
Nor  taunt  me  with  the  pay  I  never  sought. 
Have  I  loved  gold,  or  have  I  hoarded  it  ?  — 
Where  is  the  wealth  you  gave  in  my  command  ? 
If  I  must  go,  I  go  without  a  coin, 
Whose  yellow  look  might  curse  me  with  its  shame ! 

Cal.    I  never  knew  in  you  a  sordid  wish. 

Oli.    0,  no  !  0,  no  !  you  knew  me  from  a  child  ; 
I  sat  upon  your  knee,  and  called  you  father ; 
Played  with  your  tasselled  sword  —  ah,  then   you 

smiled, 

And  kissed  my  forehead,  for  that  tender  name.  — 
Our   cheeks  were   touching,  when   you   taught  me 

.  letters  ; 

0,  you  were  patient  then,  nor  roughly  chid 
Your  stammering  scholar  if  he  spelled  awry. 
You  did  not  taunt  me  with  a  love  of  gold  ; 
You  did  not  stand  upon  your  awful  power, 
And  tell  your  nursling  to  go  forth  and  die ! 


74  CALAYXOS. 

Ah,  no  ;  you  told  me  e'er  to  love  you  thus  ; 
And  for  that  lesson  I  am  wrecked  at  last  1 

Gal.    Poor  boy  !  poor  boy  !     Nay,  then  remain  — 

OIL  Not  I ! 

I  'd  rather  starve  than  eat  unwelcome  bread.  — 
That,  too,  you  taught  me,  and  I  thank  you,  sir. 
I  value  freedom  o'er  all  else  besides  ; 
Nor  would  I  be  dependent  for  a  throne. 
To-morrow  you  '11  be  happy  —  I  '11  be  free. 

Cal.    No,   no ;  it  shall  not  be.     Come   here,   my 

son  — 

Come  close  to  me  —  I  am  again  your  father ; 
Nor  shall  e'en  friendship  sunder  time-knit  love. 

Oli.    Your  blessing,  sir  ,  —  't  will  lighten  many  a 
toil. 

Cal.    Are  you  resolved  ? 

Oli.          Ay,  though  my  heart-strings  snap  ! 

Cal.    God  bless  you,  son  ! 

Oli.  God  keep  you  from  the  snares  ! 

Cal.    Away,  away  !  lest  you  revoke  my  blessing. 

[Exit  OLIVER.! 

He  does  as  I  would  do.     0,  stiff-necked  pride ! 
That  chokes  each  avenue  to  humble  love  — 
That  walls  the  glowing  heart  with  stubborn  ice, 
And  leaves  the  beds  of  feeling  cold  and  dry  ! 
Farewell !     The  first  bright  link  is  torn  away  ; 
Thus  time  will  rend  the  reliques  one  by  one.     [Exit."* 

SCENE    III. 
The  G  -tat  Hall  in  the  Castle.     Enter  DONA  ALDA  and  MARTINA 

Dona  Alda.    Has  it  struck  two  ? 

Martina.  'T  is  near  that  hour,  my  lady 


CALAYNOS.  75 

Dona  A.    Before  or  after  ? 

Mar.  Just  before,  my  lady. 

Dona  A.    We  are  too  soon.  —  The  clock  is  surely 
wrong". 

Mar.    'T  is  natural  haste.    He  knows  a  woman  well. 

Dona  A.  Yes,  yes  ;  a  woman  never  waits  for  ill  ; 
We  always  meet  it.  —  Did  you  hear  a  step  ? 

Mar.    Not  I.  —  Did  you  ? 

Dona  A.  Perhaps  it  was  my  heart. 

That  beats  so  painfully  against  my  side. 
Would   it   were   over!     (Clock  strikes.)   Hark!    there 

strikes  the  clock  ; 

It  sounds  as  if  'twould  wake  the  castle  up. — 
Did  you  e'er  note  before  how  loud  it  strikes  ? 
This  is  not  right  —  I  feel  it  is  not  right. 
I  '11  leave  the  hall.  —  See,  how  those  portraits  frown  ! 
As  if  I  'd  done  some  crime,  or  were  about  it. 

Mar.    You  are  too  late  —  look,   where  Don  Luis 

comes  ! 
He  means  no  wrong.  —  Nay,  lady,  I  '11  be  near. 

Dona  A.    Sure  never  evil  wore  so  smooth  a  face. 

(Enter  DON  Luis.     MARTINA  retires  within.) 

Don   Luis.     Your    prompt    attention    chides    my 

lingering  steps. 
Dona  A.    Speak  quickly,  sir  :  I  have  short  time  to 

hear. 

Don  L.    What,  without  more  delay  ? 
Dona  A.  Right  to  the  purpose. 

Don  L.  0,  then  prepare  your  ears  to  hear  a  tale 
Shall  shake  your  soul,  and  task  your  tottering  mind 
To  bear  its  feeble  body  firmly  up. 


76  CALAYXOS. 

Dona  A.    With  such  dread  prelude,  what  must  1 
expect  ? 

Don  L.    First,  lest  it  seem   'gainst  nature,  or  to 

prove 

That  1  am  quite  devoid  of  gratitude 
Towards  him  whose  kindness  I  have  felt,  and  feel, 
Know  the  full  cause  which  prompts  me  to  the  deed. 
Know  'tis  to  see  you  righted,  who  are  wronged  — 
Wronged  in  a  way  that  most  concerns  your  honor  — 
Wronged  by  a  wretch  in  whom  you  have  most  trust ; 
But  to  be  righted  by  a  man  who  loves. 
Yes,  yes,  I  love  you  —  love  you  with  a  heart 
That  ne'er  before  knew  love  for  womankind. 
But  yet  I  love  you  purely  as  a  saint : 
I  dare  but  worship,  hope  not  to  approach  ; 
I  have  not  thought  to  win  a  smile  or  sign  : 
I  bow  in  homage  ;  sacrifice  a  heart, 
Though  torn  and  bleeding,  spotless  as  your  own. 
Nay,  more,  I  pray  to  have  rny  love  forgiven, 
Whose  adoration  may  offend  your  eyes  ; 
For  oft  devout  arid  reverend  worship  seems, 
In  others'  sight,  no  purer  than  foul  sin. 
Yet  must  I  tell  my  love  ;  my  dammed  up  heart 
At  length  has  swept  each  choking  fear  away, 
And  caused  a  flood  in  which,  perchance,  I  '11  drown. 
0,  spare  me,  lady  !  —  say  you  can  forgive  ! 

Dona  A.    Audacious  man,   dare  you  overleap  the 

brink, 

Nor  know  the  fearful  depth  that  yawns  below  ? 
Have  you  e'er  looked  from  yonder  window's  edge, 
Down  on  the  grisly  rocks  that  jut  beneath, 
Ragged  and  cruel  as  the  chafed  boar's  fell  tusks  ? 
Have  you  e'er  turned  your  dizzy  eyes  aloft, 


CALAYNOS.  77 

To  view  the  tower  which  hangs  above  those  crags  ? 
On  that  same  tower,  years  since,  a  malpert  page 
Sighed     forth    his     love    to    our     great-grandsire's 

daughter  ; 

Next  day  they  found  him  on  the  rocks  below, 
Mangled  and  dead.  —  Some  said  he  slipped  and  fell ; 
But  none  knew  how,  or  why.  —  Beware,  fair  sir, 
If  not  sure-footed,  how  you  walk  that  tower  ! 

Don  L.    Alas,  alas  !  this  is  a  woful  tale, 
That  one  should  fall  for  love  !  —  You  pity  him  ? 

Dona  A.    Not  for  his  love  he  fell,  but  telling  it : 
There  was  the  crime  that  caused  his  grievous  slip. 
Better  his  fire  of  love  had  burned  to  dust, 
Than  roused  up  sleeping  justice  with  its  blaze. 

Don  L.    Have  you  no  feeling  for  a  burning  heart, 
That  cannot  quench  its  fire,  except  in  death  ? 

Dona  A.    "  Suffer  in  silence  "  is  the  legend  graven 
Beneath  the  shield  that  crowns  our  castle  gate  : 
When  you  came  here  you  passed  beneath  that  shield, 
Yet  have  not  read  the  wisdom  it  contains. 
..    Don  L.    Sweet  lady,  hear  me. 

Dona  A.  Nay,  no  more  of  love. 

Another  word,  I  '11  call  Calaynos  forth.  — 
Martina,  are  you  there  ? 

Martina.    (Reenteriny.)  I  am,  my  lady. 

Don  L.    Fool  !   get  you  gone.  [Exit  MARTINA.] 

Dona  A.    Ha  !  dare  you  go  ?  —  Come  back  ! 
Good-night,  good-night;  I  have  o'erstaid  my  time.— 
Sir,  thank  your  gentle  bearing  for  your  safety.  \_Going.'] 

Don  L.    Lady,  return  ;  you  have  not  heard  me  out : 
This  is  but  prologue  to  the  tragedy  ; 
Now  comes  the  guilty  tale  of  which  I  spoke 


78  CALAYXOS. 

Dona  A.    Nay,  there  was  guilt  enough  in  what 

you  said : 

Tax  not  my  ears  to  bear  a  weightier  load.  — 
Farewell.      [Goiny.] 

Don  L.         And  you  are  lost  —  forever  lost ! 
0,  I  beseech  you  listen,  on  your  life  ! 

Dona  A.    Proceed  —  I'll  hear;  but  not  a  word  of 
love. 

Don  L.   No,  't  is  of  hate,  of  most  malicious  hate  — 
Hate  self-engendered,  without  cause  or  motive  — 
Against  you  borne  by  one  you  dearly  trust ; 
Shown  in  the  heavy  wrong  'neath  which  you  live, 
Though  all  unweeting  that  such  crime  exists. 

Dona  A.    Who   does  rne  wrong?  —  One  whom   I 

love  and  trust  ? 
Martina  ? 

Don  L.  No  ;  strike  nearer  to  yourself. 

Dona  A.    Then  Oliver  :  for  he  is  next  my  lord. 

Don  L.    Your  lord  himself. 

Dona  A.  'T  is  false  !  'tis  false  as  sin  ! 

I  will  not  waste  a  moment  on  a  lie.  — 
Get  hence,  you  scurvy  thing,  base  hypocrite, 
That  thus  would  stab  your  benefactor's  back  !  — 
You  dare  not  face  him,  coward,  and  say  this, 
Lest  he  should  whip  you  with  his  undrawn  sword  ! 
Get  hence  !  'twas  fit  you  should  crawl  forth  at  night, 
If  you  must  spit  your  pent-up  venom  forth  ; 
But  keep  your  slimy  poison  from  my  ear, 
Or  I  may  crush  you,  toad  ! 

Don  L.  Be  cairn,  and  hear. 

Dona  A.    Be  mad,  arid  rave  !  I  might  forgive  you 
then. 


CALAYNOS.  79 

Don   L.     I   tell    you,    mortal   ne'er   such   wrong 
endured  — 

Dona  A.    As  you  dare  fling  upon  me. 

Don  L.  Hear  rne  out.  — 

Who  do  you  think  your  lord,  Calaynos,  is  ? 

Dona  A.    The  noblest,    greatest,   wisest   man   in 
Spain ! 

Don  L.    I  tell  you,  lady,  he  is  one  half  Moor  ; 
His  other  half  holds  every  baseness  in  it, 
That  spots  the  nature  of  the  lowest  white. 

Dona  A.    A  Moor,  a  Moor  —  a  lie  ! 

Don  L.  His  name,  his  name  ! 

Is  it  not  Moorish,  from  the  first  to  last  ?  — 
;T  is  sung  of  in  our  ballads. 

Dona  A.  Gracious  Heaven  ! 

I  never  thought  of  that  —  I  never  thought  — 

Don  L.   Look  at  these  portraits,  dark  by  blood, 

not  age, 

Clad  in  the  Moorish  steel  from  crest  to  heel. — 
Thus  scowled  they  on  the  ranks  of  Ferdinand, 
When   they  mowed  down  the  brightest  flowers  of 

Spain  ; 

Thus  proudly  looked  they,  thus  they  him  defied, 
When  round  these  walls  his  leaguering  armies  lay  ; 
Thus  grimly  smiled  they,  when  the  baffled  king 
Was  forced  to  grant  them  lands  he  could  not  hold. 
Why,  are  you  purblind,  that  you  see  them  not, 
These  dusky  founders  of  his  powerful  house  ? 

Dona  A.     It    cannot    be  ;    my   father    then   had 
known  — 

Don  L.     Yes,   he  was  poor,  and  sold  you  like  a 

slave  — 
A  precious,  fair-skinned  slave,  to  sate  a  Moor  ! 


80  CALAYXOS. 

You,  you,  the  brightest  jewel  in  all  Spain, 
Became  a  tiling  to  fill  a  miser's  chests  :  — 
Why,  he  'd  have  bartered  with  the  devil  for  you  ! 
Would  you  have  proof?  —  I  '11  bring  a  crowd  of  it. 
This  why  Culaynos  kept  you  from  Seville  — 
This  cause  of  the  secluded  life  you  lead  ; 
Forbid  to  mingle  in  the  joys  of  life, 
To  wrap  his  damned,  black  mystery  closer  up  ! 

Dona  A.   0,  misery,  despair  !    Where  shall  I  turn  ? 

Don  L.    Turn  to  me,  dearest,  I  will  succor  you. 

Dona  A.    Avaunt !  you  child  of  hell,  you  torturer  ! 
Foul,  tempting  fiend,  through  you  I  thus  have  fallen. 
Why  came  you  here,  to  mar  my  paradise 
With  knowledge  proffered  by  the  hand  of  crime  ? 

Don  L.   0,  then  return  ;  go  to  your  darling's  bed  ; 
Crawl  to  his  side,  arid  kiss  his  thick-lipped  mouth ; 
Play  with  his  curly  pate,  and  call  him  fair  ; 
Pray  heaven  to  bless  you  with  a  hybrid  race ! 
0,  hug  him  close,  close  as  fools  clasp  a  sin, 
And  dream  you  're  happy  ;   that  were  wise  and  kind. 
If  you  have  woman's  spirit,  bear  it  not  ! 

Dona  A.    0,  foul  — 0,  foul!  and  they  to  do  this 

thing  — 
Father  and  husband  !  —  0,  my  heart  will  burst ! 

Don  L.    I  tell  you,  you  were  cheated  by  this  Moor, 
Lied  to  and  cozened,  made  a  merchandise, 
Sold  to  the  highest  bidder  —  he  bid  high. 
Now  he  might  sell  you  to  some  other  hand, 
If  he  could  get  a  profit  on  his  ware. — 
What  worse  than  this  ?     What  worse  can  come  than 

this  ?  — 

Ah,  you  have  breathed  deceit,  and  fed  on  guilt ; 
Thought  him  a  saint,  who  was  at  heart  a  fiend. 


CALAYNOS.  81 

Poor  child,  poor  child  !  now  could  I  weep  for  you  ; 

But  anger  chokes  the  kindlier  channels  up, 

With  thinking  on  this  base,  heart-cheating  Moor.  — 
Dona  A.    Spare  me  !  —  Oalaynos  —          [She  faints.] 
Don  L.  But  one  way  remains. 

Now  nerve  me,  love,  to  bear  my  precious  freight. 

[He  carries  her  off.] 

(After  a  pause,  enter  CALAYNOS.) 

Calaynos.    Methought  I  heard  a  voice  repeat  my 

name  ; 

And  then  a  hurried  rush  of  trampling  feet. 
No,  'twas  a  fancy  ;  all  is  still.  —  These  lights  — 
Why  burn  they  here,  at  this  unwonted  hour, 
Watching,  like  grief,  the  dull,  cold  midnight  through  ? 
This  is  a  strange  neglect,  unknown  before, 
And  dangerous.     I  must  draw  a  tighter  rein. 
These  knavish  servants  —  Ha  !  I  heard  a  noise, 

[Opens  the  caserne  it."] 

Like  the  dull  sound  a  flying  courser  makes, 
When  urged  to  speed  along  the  yielding  sod. 
Some  of  the  deer  have  broken  through  the  pale, 
And  gambol  nimbly  'neath  the  winking  stars. 
Bright  nightly  watchers,  tell  your  secrets  now  ; 
Unfold  to  me  the  mystery  of  your  being  ; 
Say  why  ye  came,  how  long  ye  thus  have  kept 
Your  faithful  vigils  o'er  this  atom,  earth  ! 
Were  you  but  formed  for  man  to  gaze  upon, 
To  flatter  him,  and  puff  his  spirit  up  ; 
Or  in  creation's  scale  do  ye  hold  place 
Of  more  import  than  sages  ever  dreamed  ? 
Ye  misty  pleiads,  where  has  gone  the  star 
That,  ages  since,  among  ye  disappeared  ? 

VOL.  i.  6 


82 


CAI.AYNOS. 


How  men  with  wild  conjectures  vex  their  minds, 

To  find  what  cause  could  blot  that  fiery  orb  ! 

Yet  if  a  brother  mortal  leave  his  sphere, 

From  this  vast  human  firmament  struck  out, 

They  pass  the  lifeless  clay  without  a  thought 

Of  why  he  left,  or  where  his  elements. 

Pale,  dusty  path,  that,  in  the  depths  of  space, 

Hangs  like  a  smoky  track  behind  the  wheel 

Of  some  vast  burning  orb  ;  but,  to  the  sage, 

Resolves  to  starry  pebbles  paving  heaven  — 

Nay,  to  great  suns,  to  satellites,  to  systems, 

In  myriad  numbers  whirling  on  through  space  — 

0,  what  is  far  beyond  you  ?     Can  ye  see 

The  limit  that  hems  in  the  universe  ? 

0,  what  remains  hid  from  the  prying  glass, 

Whose  added  strength  looks  still  on  other  worlds  ? 

Yet  with  this  awful  knowledge,  impious  man  — 

Ah,  yes,  the  meanest  of  the  clay-born  herd  — 

Will  strut  and  vapor,  as  if  he  alone 

Filled  the  whole  universe,  and  gave  it  laws. 

Lo  1  meek-eyed  morn,  like  a  pale  beggar,  knocks 

With  trembling  fingers  at  night's  eastern  gate. 

Poor  Oliver,  this  m  .rn  is  black  to  thee ! 

I  must  retire.     (Knocking.)     What  can  that  knocking 

mean  ?  — 
Where  are  the  sluggish  knaves  that  tend  the  gate  ? 

[Bell  rings.] 

Ho,  Oliver,  come  forth  !    (Enter  a  Servant.)    Quick,  ope 

the  gate  I  [Exit  Servant.] 

This  early  summons  bodes  some  weighty  matter. 

(Enter  OLIVER.) 
Oliver.    My  lord,  you  called  ? 


CALAYNOS.  83 

Gal.  Nay,  get  to  sleep  again. 

I  know  not  why  I  called  —  't  was  habit  —  go. 

Oli.    You   know  full   well   I    did   not    sleep    last 

night.  — 
'T  is  useless  to  attempt  it. 

(Enter  a  Forester  wounded.) 

Cal.  Who  are  you, 

That  startle  morning  ere  the  cock  has  crowed  ? 
Wounded  and  bleeding  !     If  I  see  aright, 
You  wear  the  livery  of  my  foresters. 

Forester.    My  wound  is  nothing  ;  but  the  way  it 

came 
May  much  concern  your  lordship,  if  you  '11  hear. 

Cal.    Say  on. 

For.  Well,  senor,  as  I  went  my  rounds, 

Just  ere  the  break  of  day,  to  watch  the  herd, 
I  saw  two  horsemen  spurring  to  the  blood 
Across  the  park,  as  if  to  gain  the  hills. 
The  foremost  bore  a  lady  in  his  arms, 
Who  seemed  nigh  dead  with  fear,  or  dead  outright : 
Well,  this  one  passed  ere  I  could  cross  his  way. 
Beside  the  second  rode  a  girl  I  'd  seen  — 
My  lady's  maid,  I  think  her  name  ?s  Martina  ; 
But  who  the  man  was  I  can  scarcely  tell. 
Well,  sir,  I  threw  my  staff  across  his  path, 
And  bade  him  stand  :  out  came  his  heavy  sword  ; 
With  a  side  blow  he  struck  me  down  to  earth, 
And  split  my  skull  with  this  unmanly  wound. 
The  coward  !     If  I  'd  had  a  sword,  my  lord, 
I  warrant  you  I  'd  make  the  fellow  leap. 
But  then  you  see  I  was  unarmed,  my  lord, 


84  CALAYNOS. 

And  it  was  nearly  dark.     I  stood  just  so, 
With  my  stall'  raised  — 

Gal.  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Here  's  gold,  to  heal  your  wound.  [Offers  money.] 

F.r.  I  'd  rather  not  : 

The  chance  to  serve  you  has  been  pay  enough. 


Gal    There  goes  a  man,  a  man  without  a  price, 
Who  takes  no  fee  for  virtue  !     Oliver. 

Oli.    My  lord. 

Gal.  What  think  you  of  this  fellow's  tale  ? 

Soto  has  done  us  service,  were  it  not 
That  her  elopement  will  sore  vex  my  lady. 

Oli.    But   who  the  foremost   horseman  ?  —  whom 
bore  he  ? 

Gal.    That's  strange  indeed.    Go  call  Don  Luis  up. 

[Exit  OLIVER,  hastily.] 

Here  is  brisk  gossip  for  a  week  or  two  : 
There  '11  be  no  grumblers  here  till  this  is  o'er. 
I,  too,  am  rid  of  one  whose  wanton  breath 
Forced  into  birth  my  lady's  discontent, 
To  choke  her  peace  with  its  unhealthy  sprouts. 

(Rcenter  OLIVER.) 

OK.    Don  Luis,  sir,  ne'er  saw  his  couch  last  night  ; 
And  all  his  lighter  luggage  is  removed. 

Gal.    Call  Dona  Alda. 

OK.  Sir,  I  passed  her  room  ; 

The  door  was  open,  not  a  soul  within. 

Gal.     What    can    this    mean?  —  Why  bite    your 

trembling  lip, 
And  bend  your  eyes  so  sharply  on  my  face  ? 

OK.   Ah,  what  sad  prophets  may  our  fears  become  ! 


CALAYNOS.  85 

Cal.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Oli.  My  lord,  I  dare  not  say. 

Cal.    'T  will  not  offend  —  speak  out. 

Oli.  You  promise  me  ? 

Cal.    I  vow,  I  will  not  say  or  do  you  ill. 

Oli.    The  foremost  horseman  —  who  was  he  ? 

Cal.  Go  on. 

Oli.    Don  Luis. 

Cal.  Ha  !  the  lady  whom  he  bore 

Was  — 

Oli.         Pardon  me,  for  she  was  Dona  Alda. 

Cal.    Monstrous  !     And  wags  the  tongue  that  dare 
say  this  ? 

Oli.    'T  is  true,   my  lord,   or  rend   me  limb  from 
limb. 

Cal.    Rash  boy,  I  will  be  calm  —  calm  as  the  storm, 
Ere  on  your  head  its  gathering  terrors  burst ! 

(Enter  a  SERVANT.) 

Servant.    My  lord,  some  laboring  men  beset  the 

gate, 

Who  beg  to  see  you  ;  for  they  boldly  say 
That,  as  they  went  to  work,  they  saw  a  man, 
Mounted  and  armed  like  a  stout  cavalier, 
Flying  with  Lady  Alda  in  his  arms. 
On  foot  they  could  not  reach  him  — 

Cal.  Out !   begone  !  [Exit  SERVANT,  j 

These  torturing  fiends  are  leagued  to  drive  me  mad  ! 

Oli.    My  lord,  my  lord  ! 

Cal.  Why  stand  you  there,  dull  sloth, 

And  stare  upon  me  with  your  vacant  eyes  ? 


86  CALAYNOS. 

Slay  wench   and   paramour.  —  Mount,    mount,   and 
follow ! 

(OLIVER  snatches  a  sword  from  the  wall.) 

Ha !  the  hot  blood  of  all  the  Moors  is  up, 

And  must  have  blood  to  lay  it.  —  Mount,  I  say  !  - 

You  '11  not  desert  me  now  ? 

Oli.  Not  while  my  soul 

Clings  to  its  wretched  clay.  —  Shall  I  slay  both  ? 

Gal.    Slay  both  ;  without  a  thought  of  mercy  slay  ! 
The  shallow  fools  have  fallen  in  love  with  death. 

Oli.    Murder  will  blot  my  soul  when  I  return. 

Gal.   The  murder  of  two  wolves  that  tore  your 
lord! 

Oli.    Mine  to  obey ;  —  I  question  not  your  man 
dates. 

Gal.    Stay,  Oliver  ;  their  blood  must  be  on  me. 

Oli.    No,  no  ;  I  'd  rather  do  it. 

Gal.  0  God,  forgive  — 

Forgive  my  impious  rage  !     Withhold  thy  frown, 
Till  I  have  sifted,  to  the  very  dust, 
This  hideous  matter  !     Follow,  but  slay  not. 
Disguise  your  form,  and  seem  not  what  you  are  — 
The  more  like  them  who  hid  their  acts  as  thieves. 
Learn  all  you  can,  and  then  return  to  me : 
Slow  justice  is  more  certain  of  its  end. 
If  she  repent,  and  you  are  moved  to  pity, 
And  dare  to  bring  her  where  I  catch  a  glimpse 
Of  her  repentant  features,  by  the  gods, 
I  '11  hurl  you  from  the  walls  !  —  Be  still,  my  heart ! 

[Aside.] 

Oli.    I  will  obey  in  all. 

Gal.  Away,  away!     [Exit  OLIVER.] 


CALAYNOS.  87 

Where  shall  I  turn  ?     0,  what  thing  shall  I  do  ? 

How  have  I  scorned  the  men  of  ancient  Rome, 

Who  left  their  fortunes  to  a  flying  bird  ! 

But,  now,  I  'd  hang  my  doubts  upon  a  die, 

Or  whirling  coin,  and  follow  it  like  fate. 

0,  vain  philosophy  !  is  this  thy  aid  ? 

When  troubles  darken,  and  the  passions  rage, 

Must  the  philosopher  become  a  man  — 

A  feeble  man,  a  very  fool  of  impulse  ? 

7T  is  all  in  vain,  I  cannot  drive  my  thoughts 

Into  their  wonted  channels  ;  cannot  weigh, 

Nor  calmly  speculate  upon  my  grief. 

0,  Alda,  Alda,  thoughts  of  thee  come  back, 

And  drive  all  speculation  from  my  brain  !  — 

Why  here  am  I,  who  thought  to  will  to  do, 

Who  thought  I  'd  schooled  my  passion  as  a  child, 

Raving  at  heaven  o'er  one  of  life's  poor  wrongs ! 

How  brave,  how  brave  in  me  to  teach  long  suffering, 

And,  when  I  suffer,  shrink  without  a  tug  I 

0,  Alda,  Alda,  never  love  thee  more, 

Never  behold  thee,  never  call  thee  mine  !  — 

I  have  a  heart  that  mocks  philosophy  ; 

Burst  forth,  my  heart  —  I  'm  but  a  man  at  last ! 

[Weeps.] 


38  OALAYNOS. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE    I.     The  Great  Hall  in  CALAYNOS'  Castle.     Enter 
CALAYNOS. 

Calaynos.  THE  strife  is  vain  ;  I  cannot  think  nor 

read ; 

My  mind  will  wander,  and  my  eyes  grow  dim : 
She  clings  to  me  like  sin  !  I  catch  myself, 
Involuntary,  dreaming  o'er  the  page, 
And  all  my  dream  of  her.     Day  follows  day, 
Yet  deeper  sinks  the  barb.     Each  hour  my  heart, 
Like  a  calmed  vessel  next  a  hideous  rock, 
Heaves  near  this  one  idea.     I  hear  her  name 
Breathed  by  the  air,  in  every  gale  that  blows  ; 
I  feel  her  hand  upon  my  shoulder  laid, 
And  sigh  that  sense  can  cheat.     0  shame,  shame, 

shame ! 

Thy  slime  clings  round  me,  and  doth  drag  me  down. 
0  pride,  0  o'erblown  pride,  on  which  I  swam 
In  life's  calm  seas,  and  gayly  smiled  at  fate  ;  — 
Thou,  in  the  tempest's  hour,  dost  toss  me  up, 
On  the  dread  top  of  every  howling  wave, 
To  send  me  thundering  in  its  black  abyss  !  — 
Better  beneath  the  choking  brine  to  sink, 
And  die  untortured.     Why  did  she  deceive  ? 
Why  do  this  damning  act?     If  thunder  roar, 
Men  look  above  their  heads,  to  find  a  cloud  ; 


CALAYXOS.  89 

But  I  am  withered  by  a  scathing  shock, 

And  yet  the  cause  know  riot.     What,  Alda  false  ? 

I  '11  not  believe  it  —  I  am  not  awake  ; 

I  '11  wake,  ere  long,  and  find  her  by  my  side  ; 

Or  she  '11  return,  and  tell  it  all  to  me. 

It  is  a  trick  to  try  me.     She  is  hid, 

In  some  odd  nook,  to  watch  her  jealous  lord ; 

Next  thing  she  '11  sally  out,  and  mock  my  grief.  — 

She  false  !     I  ;d  staked  my  soul  upon  her  truth. 

Ah,  'tis  a  trick,  a  trick  —  a  trick  to  damn  ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?     Who  shall  direct  me  now  ? 

(Turns  to  the  portraits.) 

1  dare  not  question  you,  ye  men  of  blood  ; 

I  know  your  answer  —  draw  the  sword  and  kill ! 

Fling  out  our  banner,  fire  the  culverins, 

Call  in  the  war-bred  from  their  ancient  hills, 

And  let  the  trembling  valleys  hear,  aghast, 

Calaynos  wars  with  man  !     0,  empty  threat ! 

Blood  cannot  heal  the  scars  which  seam  my  heart. 

(Opens  the  casement.) 

The  very  sky  is  red,  —  is  red  as  blood  ! 

Down,  tempting  devil,  down  !  —  I  will  not  murder : 

'Tis  the  last  print  of  evening's  fiery  foot 

That  burns  in  yonder  clouds.     Ere  long,  the  night 

Shall  fall  as  black  as  memory  on  my  soul  — 

0  heaven  !  without  a  hope  to  light  my  path, 

One  starry  hope,  to  lend  its  guiding  beam. 

Stumbling,  and  lost  in  darkness,  on  I  grope 

To  death  —  0  yes,  to  death  —  to  peace  and  rest. 

What  dusky  clouds  o'erclimb  yon  eastern  peaks  ? 

A  storm  ?     Come  on,  I  like  thy  looks,  my  mate  ! 


1)0 


CALAYNOS. 


Shake  thy  red  lightnings  o'er  this  wicked  world  — 
Strike  all  the  guilty  with  thy  burning  hand  — 
Pour  thy  cruel  hail  upon  their  naked  heads  — 
O'erturn  their  habitations,  root  them  out  — 
Drive  them,  like  sheep,  before  thy  angry  face  ! 
Nay,  let  them  go  :  slay  all  the  innocent  - 
Slay  all  the  sufferers,  all  that  ache  'neath  wrongs  ; 
For  guilt  can  live  in  peace,  and  smile  at  them  ! 

(Thunder.) 

AMa,  awake !  the  God  of  heaven  is  out, 
The  God  of  justice  1  —  No,  the  storm  will  pass  ; 
Or  if  it  strike,  perchance  'twill  kill  a  child. 
0,  what  a  weary  life  is  mine  —  strike  me, 
In  mercy  strike  1 

(Enter  OLIVER.) 

Ha  !  thou  'st  returned,  my  son  ? 

[Embraces  him.] 
Didst  thou  see  —  Speak,  I  cannot  question  thee. 

Oliver.  Yes,  yes,  I   saw  too   much.  —  Alas  !    my 

lord, 

What  dreadful  thing  has  brought  this  change  about? 
A  month  ago  I  left  thee  in  thy  prime, 
And,  now,  thou'rt  old  and  wrinkled. 

t>al-  Yes,  my  son, 

My  heart  is  old  and  wrinkled  as  my  brow. 
I  have  not  long  to  live  ;  I  feel  it  here. 
Yet,  ere  I  go,  I  fain  would  tidings  gain 
Of  Dona  A  Ida.  —  Is  she  happy  now  ? 

Oli.  An  hour  ago,  I  passed  a  wretched  town  ; 
But,  ere  I  left,  a  squalid  thing  of  rags 
Went  by  me,  yet  begged  not ;  though  I  was  clad, 


CALAYNOS.  91 

Painted,  and  bearded  like  a  cavalier. 

I  gave  it,  all  unasked,  it  looked  so  sad  — 

That  thing  was  Lady  Alda. 

Cal.  Base-born  dog  ! 

And  did  you  dare  to  give  her  charity  ? 

Oli.  'T  was  of  your  g*old  I  g"ave. 

Cal.  0,  pardon  me  : 

The  devil  in  my  blood  will  not  be  laid. 
And  did  she  take  it  with  a  courtly  grace, 
Learned  at  Seville  from  her  bewitching  Don  ; 
Or  did  she  clutch  it  like  a  common  drab  ? 
Say  on  ;  I  'm  sorrow-proof. 

Oli.  Ah,  no,  my  lord  ; 

She  hardly  felt  the  gold  touch  her  thin  palm  ; 
And  then  she  smiled,  so  sorrowful,  so  sweet, 
As  one  unused  to  kindness. 

Gal.  Know'st  thou  more  ? 

1 7d  steeled  my  heart  to  hear  the  blackest  tale, 
But  this  doth  blacken  fancy. 

Oli.  Few  my  words  ! 

Of  her  dark  story  much  I  could  not  gather  ; 
And  what  I  gained  I  came  at  by  report. 
She  fled  with  thy  false  friend  too  well  thou  know'st ; 
But  why,  is  known  to  him  and  her  alone. 
From  some  vague  hints,  I  think  the  guilt  not  hers  ; 
But  that  Don  Luis  used  the  foulest  means, 
And  so  achieved  his  wish  most  treacherously.  — 
'T  is  said,  and  I  believe  it. 

Cal.  Bless  thee,  Heaven  I 

Oli.  She  lived  with  him  a  while,  but  then  she  fled  ; 
This,  too,  a  mystery  ;  —  though  I  heard  his  knave, 
His  vile  familiar,  Soto,  said  in  scorn  — 
"  She  was  too  grand  a  lady  for  a  mistress  !  " 


02  CALAYNOS. 

Since  then,  she  wanders  on  from  town  to  town, 
With  death's  fell  signet  stamped  upon  her  brow, 
Looking  like  grief  in  animated  stone. 

Cal  Yet  the  sun  shines,  and  yet  this  villain  lives  ! 
0,  slow,  slow  justice,  must  I  be  thy  tool  ? 
(Storm  increases.) 

Oli.  Mercy,  how  't  rains  ! 

Gal.  Ay,  ay,  alike  on  all. 

Dost  think  poor  Alda  feels  this  bitter  storm, 
Homeless  and  friendless,  without  cloak  or  food  ? 

Oli.  Perchance  —  (Jl  groan  without.)     Hark,  hark  ! 

Cal.  Methought  I  heard  a  sound, 

Like  the  weak  moan  of  a  sick,  restless  child. 

[Another  yroan.~\ 

Oli.  And  there  again !    It  comes  from  'neath  yon 
window. 

Gal.  Look  out  and  see. 

Oli.     (Looking  out.)     I  saw,  by  the  last  flash, 
A  huddled  form  that  cowered  against  the  wall. 
Perchance  some  helpless  child  has  lost  its  way, 
And  cannot  find  the  gate. 

Gal.  Go  bring  it  in  : 

No  beast  should  suffer  on  a  night  like  this. 

[Exit  OLIVER.] 
(Goes  to  the  casement.) 

Ay,  shake  your  fiery  tresses,  dusky  clouds  ; 
I  have  resolved  —  ye  cannot  move  my  mind  ! 
Ye '11  spare  me  for  this  act  —  ye  love  a  crime  ; 
Or  long  ago  ye  'd  scathed  that  viper's  skin.  — 
Three  days  from  this  he  dies,  and  by  my  hand. 

(Thunder.) 
Roar  on,  roar  on  !     I  '11  plunge  my  arm  in  blood 


CALAYNOS.  93 

Up  to  the  elbow  —  he  shall  bellow  too  ! 
Poor  Alda,  whither  roamest  thou,  sad  wretch, 
Without  a  home  or  comfort !  —  Spare  her,  Heaven  ! 
For  thou  canst  soften  tempests  to  a  breath, 
To  succor  the  shorn  lamb  —  0,  she  is  shorn  ! 

(Reenter  OLIVER,  with  servants  bearing  DONA  ALDA  on  a  couch.} 

Oli.  She  has  not  long  to  live  :  — I  brought  her  here. 

Gal.  Brought  whom  ? 

Oli.  The  lady  Alda. 

Gal.  Gracious  heaven  I 

Why,  I  am  passion's  plaything.  — Shall  I  rave  ?  — 
Shall  I  grow  drunk  on  grief,  and  fire  the  house  ?  — 
Or  what  most  desperate  and  headlong  act 
Hast  Thou  reserved  for  me  ?     I  'm  ready —  speak ! 
Say  anjTthing  ;  but  let  me  do,  not  think  ; 
For  I  with  thought  grow  mad  ! 

Oli.  Look  on  her,  sir. 

Gal.  I  cannot. 

Oli.         Look  ;  more  harmless  thing  ne'er  lived. 
Ah,  she  is  very  still,  and  cold,  and  pale ; 
Scarce  a  pulse  nutters  ;  she  is  nigh  run  down  ; 
The  balance  of  her  body  hardly  beats  : 
Another  move,  then  follows  endless  rest. 

Gal.  Endless  !    Stand  here  ;  I  '11  look  at  her  once 
more. 

(Approaches  the  couch.} 

Poor  wretch,  poor  wretch  !  why,  grief  hath  rubbed 

thee  sore  ! 

I  see  its  marks  upon  thy  once  smooth  brow ; 
And  it  has  crept  among  thy  tangled  hair, 
To  nestle  in  its  silk.     Sad  mark  of  woe, 
I  '11  not  believe  thy  guilt ;  't  was  not  thy  fault ; 


94  CALAYXOfl. 

That  vjllain  Luis,  by  some  hell-hatched  lie, 

Drove  thee  past  reason.     Thou  hast  a  talc,  shut  up 

Within  the  hollow  chamber  of  thy  breast, 

To  make  avenging-  falchions  bristle  earth  ; 

Thou  couldst  urge  stony  death  to  mend  his  pace, 

And  strike  the  monster  ere  his  day.  —  She  moves. 

Go  to  her,  Oliver  ;  I  cannot  stay. 

Perchance,  she  'd  speak,  yet  has  short  time  for  words. 

Dona  Alda.  Calaynos. 

OU.         Hark  !  she  calls  thee,  sir. 

Gal.  Go,  go ! 

OU.  Lady,  I  'm  here. 

Dona  A.  Nay,  nay,  deceive  me  not. 

I  saw  a  pitying  face  bent  over  me, 
And  it  was  his.     Thou  'rt  Oliver.     0,  sir, 
If  thou  hast  trace  of  feeling  in  thy  nature, 
Pray,  bring  him  here.     I  'm  weak,  and  ill,  and  fallen  : 
He  would  not  come  for  me  ;  for  he  is  proud, 
And  I  have  wronged  him  to  the  depths  of  wrong  — 
Not  all  myself;  but  yet  he  thinks  't  was  I.  — 
Go,  ere  I  die,  in  mercy  go,  kind  sir. 

Gal.    (Rushing  to  her.)      Alda! 

Dona  A.  Break,  heart !    I  am  content  to  die. 

Gal.  0  live  !  0  live  !  I  will  forgive  thee  all.  - 
[  will  heap  kindness  on  thee,  till  its  top 
Shall  knock  at  heaven.     We  will  be  friends,  true 

friends ; 

If  not  ray  wife,  thou  shalt  be  dearer  far.  — 
If  any  here  shall  dare  to  mock  at  thee, 
I  '11  hang  them  from  the  walls  to  scare  the  wind.  — 
I  '11  guard  thee  like  a  tiger !     If  the  world 
Should  choose  to  sneer,  why,  love,  we  '11  laugh  at  it ; 
Or,  if  thou  lik'st,  I  '11  ravage  half  of  Spain.  — 


CALAYNOS.  95 

Yes,  I  '11  do  anything  ;  but  live,  0  live  ! 
Far  I  can  swear  thou  ;rt  guiltless.     Tell  me  all. 
Dona  A.   0   god-like  man !    thy  speech  surpasses 

hope  ; 

I  did  not  look  for  this  from  even  thee  ; 
I  only  wished  to  crawl  to  thee  and  die : 
For  I  have  shamed  thee  in  the  face  of  man. 
I  've  made  thy  name  a  sneer  and  mockery ; 
And  fools  may  spit  their  slander  on  thy  fame, 
To  gall  thy  pride,  and  shake  thy  glorious  mind. 

0  fie,  0  fie  !  that  I  should  do  this  act  — 
This  act  beneath  pollution  !     Why  not  curse  ? 
Why  not  call  vengeance  on  my  head  like  rain  ? 
Why  dost  not  spurn  me  ?     Why  not  cast  me  forth, 
To  rot  with  kindred  filth,  in  some  foul  place, 
Where  my  rank  guilt  may  not  offend  thy  sense  ? 

Gal  Alda! 

Dona  A.         It  would  be  just.     And  I  supposed, 
When  I  set  forth  to  view  thy  face  once  more, 
That  grooms  would  drive  me  from  thy  gates  with 

whips  ; 
For  well  I  knew  my  guilt  deserved  no  less  :  — 

1  sat  in  judgment  on  it,  all  alone, 

And  that  the  fiat  which  my  conscience  gave. 

Gal.  Speak  not  of  this  ;  thou  dost  o'erstrain  thy 

guilt ; 

Let  me  not  doubt  thee,  in  this  solemn  hour. 
Tell  me  thy  story  ;  for  I  think  thee  wronged. 

Dona  A.  Yes,  foully  wronged ;  but  half  the  fault 

my  own. 

There  is  a  packet  hidden  in  my  breast, 
Which  holds  the  truthful  story  of  my  crime  ; 
For  thee  't  was  writ,  ere  I  resolved  to  come. 


9o  CALAYNOS. 

Thou  'It  spare  the  shame  of  telling  thee  this  thing ; 
'T  would  bring  a  flush  upon  the  face  of  death, 
And  drive  thee  from  thy  firmness.     When  I  'm  dead, 
Tear  forth  the  dreadful  secret.  —  0,  my  lord  !  — 

Gal.    What   wouldst    thou,    Alda  ?  —  Cheer  thee, 
love  !  — bear  up  ! 

Dona  A.  Thy  face  is  dim  ;  I  cannot  see  thy  eyes  : 
Nay,  hide  them  not ;  they  are  my  guiding  stars. 
Have  sorrow's  drops  thus  blotted  out  their  light  ? 
Thou  dost  forgive  me,  love  ?  —  thou  'It  think  of  me  ?  — 
Thou  'It  not   speak   harshly,    when    I  'm   neath   the 

earth  ?  — 
Thou  'It  love  my  memory,  for  what  once  I  was  ? 

Gal.  Yes,  though  I  live  till  doom. 

Dona  A.  0,  happiness  ! 

Come  closer  —  this  thy  hand  ?  Have  mercy,  Heaven ! 
Yes,  press  me  closer  —  close  —  I  do  not  feel.  — 

Gal.  0,  God  of  mercy,  spare  ! 

Dona  A.  A  sunny  day  — 

0  !  —  (She faints.) 

Gal.         Bear  her  in  —  I  am  as  calm  as  ice. 
Come  when  she  wakes  :   I  cannot  see  her  thus. 

[Exeunt  OLIVER  and  servants,  bearing  DONA  ALDA.] 
'T  is  better  so  ;  but  then  the  thoughts  come  back 
Of  the  young  bride  I  welcomed  at  the  gate.  — 

1  kissed  her,  yes,  I  kissed  her  —  was  it  there  ? 
Yes,  yes,  I  kissed  her  there,  and  in  the  chapel  — 
The  dimly-lighted  chapel.  —  I  see  it  all ! 

Here  was  old  Hubert,  there  stood  Oliver  — 

The    priest,   the    bridesmaids,    groomsmen  —  every 

face ; 

All  the  retainers  that  around  us  thronged, 
Smiling  for  joy,  with  ribands  in  their  caps.  — 


CALAYNOS.  97 

% 

And  shall  they  all,  all  follow  her  black  pall, 
With  weeping  eyes,  and  doleful,  sullen  weeds  ? 
For  th'jy  all  love  her :  —  0,  she  was  so  kind, 
So  kini  and  gentle,  when  they  stood  in  need; 
And  never  checked  them  if  they  murmured  at  her, 
But  found  excuses  for  their  discontent.  — 
They  '11  miss  her,  for  her  path  was  like  an  angel's, 
And  every  place  seemed  holier  where  she  came. 
Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  I  would  this  life  were  past ! 
Stay,  love,  watch  o'er  me  ;  I  will  join  thee  soon. 

(A  cry  within.) 
So  quickly  gone  !  and  ere  I  said  farewell ! 

(Rushes  to  the  door.) 

(Reenter  OLIVER.) 
Oli.  My  lord  - 

Gal.    Yes,  yes,  she  's  dead  —  I  will  go  in.    [Exit.] 
Oli.  0,  dreadful  ending  to  a  fearful  night ! 
This  shock  has  shattered  to  the  very  root 
The  strength  of  his  great  spirit.     Mournful  night ! 
And  what  will  day  bring  forth  ?  — but  woe  on  woe. 
Ah,  death  may  rest  a  while,  and  hold  his  hand, 
Having  destroyed  this  wondrous  paragon, 
And   sapped  a  mind   whose    lightest   thought   was 

worth 

The  concentrated  being  of  a  herd. 
Yet  shall  the  villain  live  who  wrought  this  woe  ? 
By  heaven  I  swear,  if  my  lord  kill  him  not, 
I,  though  a  scholar  and  unused  to  arms, 
Will  hunt  him  down  —  ay,  should    he    course    the 

earth  — 

And  slay  him  like  a  felon  ! 
If  this  be  sin,  let  fiends  snap  at  my  soul, 
But  I  will  do  it !     Lo,  where  conies  my  lord, 

VOL.  I.  t 


93  CALAYNOS. 

Bent  down  and  withered,  like  a  broken  tree, 
Prostrate  with  too  much  bearing. 

(Reenter  CALAYNOS.) 

Gal  Oliver, 

I  stole  to  see  her ;  not  a  soul  was  there, 
Save  an  old  crone  that  hummed  a  doleful  tune. 
And  winked  her  purblind  eyes,  overrun  with  tears. 
0,  boy,  I  never  knew  I  loved  her  so  ! 
I  held  my  breath,  and  gazed  into  her  face  — 
Ah,  she  was  wondrous  fair.     She  seemed  to  me, 
Just  as  I  've  often  seen  her,  fast  asleep, 
When  from  my  studies  cautiously  I  've  stolen, 
And  bent  above  her,  and  drunk  up  her  breath, 
Sweet  as  a  sleeping-  infant's.  — Then  perchance, 
Yet  in  her  sleep,  her  starry  eyes  would  ope, 
To  close  again  behind  their  fringy  clouds, 
Ere   I  caught  half  their  glory.     There  's  no  breath 

now, 

There  's  not  a  perfume  on  her  withered  lips, 
Her  eyes  ope  not,  nor  ever  will  again.  — 
But  tell  me  how  she  died.     She  suffered  not  ? 

OIL  She  scarcely  woke  from  her  first  fainting  here  ; 
Or  if  she  did,  she  gave  no  sign  nor  word. 
A  while  she  muttered,  as  if  lost  in  prayer  ; 
Some  who  stood  close  thought  once  they  caught  thy 

name  ; 

But  grief  had  dulled  my  sense,  I  could  not  hear. 
Then  she  slid  gently  to  a  lethargy ; 
And  so  she  died  —  we  knew  not  when  she  went. 

Gal  Here  is  the  paper  which  contains  her  story : 
I  fain  would  clear  her  name,  fain  think  her  wronged. 

[Reads.} 


CALAYNOS.  99 

0,  double-dealing  villain  !  —  Moor  —  bought  her  ! 
Impious  monster  —  false  beyond  belief! 
But  she  is  guiltless  —  hear'st  thou,  Oliver  ? 
Nay,  read  ;  I  cannot  move  thee  as  she  can. 

[OLIVER  reads."] 

He  called  me  Moor.     True,  true,  I  did  her  wrong : 
The  sin  is  mine  ;  I  should  have  told  her  that. 
I  only  kept  it  back  to  save  her  pain  ; 
I  feared  to  lose  respect  by  telling  her. 
I  see  how  he  could  heighten  that  grave  wrong, 
And  spur  her  nigh  to  madness  with  his  taunts. 
She  fell,  was  senseless,  without  life  or  reason  — 
Why,  tigers  spare  inanimated  forms  — 
So  bore  her  off'.     Then  lie  on  lie  —  0  base  ! 
The  guilt  all  mine.     Why  did  I  hide  my  birth  ? 
Ah,  who  can  tell  how  soon  one  seed  of  sin, 
Which  we  short-sighted  mortals  think  destroyed, 
May  sprout  and  bear,  and  shake  its  noxious  fruit 
Upon  our  heads,  when  we  ne'er  dream  of  ill ; 
For  naught  that  is  can  ever  pass  away  1 

Oli.  And  shall  this  villain  live  ? 

Gal.  No,  no,  by  Heaven  ! 

Those  fellows  on  the  wall  would  haunt  me  then. 
I  hear  your  voices,  men  of  crime  and  blood, 
Ring  in  my  ears,  and  I  obey  the  call. 

[Snatches  a  sword  from  the  wall.} 

How  precious  is  the  blade  which  justice  wields, 
To  chasten  wrong,  or  set  a  wrong  to  right ! 

[Z)  raws.] 

Come  forth,  thou  minister  of  bloody  deeds, 
That  blazed  a  comet  in  the  van  of  war, 
Presaging  death  to  man,  and  tears  to  earth  ! 
Pale,  gleaming  tempter,  when  I  clutch  thee  thus, 


100  CALAYN03. 

Thou,  of  thyself,  dost  plead  that  murder  's  right, 

And  rnak'st  me  half  believe  it  luxury  ! 

Thy  horrid  edge  is  thirsting  for  man's  gore, 

And  them  shalt  drink  it  from  the  point  to  hilt !  — 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  warrior  blood  is  up  ; 

The  tiger  spirit  of  my  warlike  race 

Burns  in  my  heart,  and  floods  my  kindling  veins.  — 

Mount,  Oliver,  ere  pity's  hand  can  hide 

The  bloody  mist  that  floats  before  my  eyes  — 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  Moor  rides  forth  to  slay  I 

[Exeunt.] 


SCENE  II. 
A  Street  in  Seville.  Enter  DON  MIGUEL  and  DON  LOPEZ,  meeting. 

Don  Lopez.  Whither  so  fast,  Miguel  ? 

Don  Miguel.  To  join  Don  Luis 

And  all  his  roaring  fellows  at  a  feast. 
Are  you  not  going  ?     For  a  modern  feast, 
The  thing  will  be  as  well  as  they  know  how. 
Would  the  old  times  might  come  to  us  again, 
When  men  drank  sherry  from  a  two-quart  cup  ! 
Pshaw !  if  I  had  my  way,  I  'd  turn  time  back. 
Now,  if  I  drank  at  this  same  scurvy  feast, 
As  we  of  old  could  drink  without  a  thought, 
The  weak-brained  boys  would  point  their  silly  thumbs 
And  ask  their  host  if  there  the  devil  dined  ? 
Plague  on  these  times  !     Give  me  the  jolly  days 
When  men  held  mighty  flagons  in  one  hand, 
And  with  the  other  grasped  their  mightier  swords  — 


CALAYNOS.  101 

None  of  your  toasting-forks  ;  a  true  Toledo, 
Edged  at  each  side,  and  pointed  like  a  spear : 
Why,  bah  !  these  boys  could  scarcely  lift  such  blades. 
Those  were  the  glorious  days  of  wine  and  war  ! 

Don  Lop.  May  all  you  giants  live  to  drink  a  tun  ; 
But  pardon  me  about  the  rapier,  sir. 

Don  M.  0  yes,  you'll  talk  of  skill,  and  all  that 

thing  ; 

But  't  was  more  skill  to  'scape  a  swashing  blow, 
Than  all  your  thrusts,  and  tierces,  and  such  trash. 

Don  Lop.    What  a  cursed  shame,  to  mince  a  man 

to  death — 

To  chop  him  into  slices,  break  his  bones, 
When  a  most  gentle  and  well-mannered  thrust 
Would  do  as  well  — 

Don  M.  To  skewer  him,  like  a  fowl, 

To  puncture  him,  to  make  him  die  of  pin-stabs : 
'Tis  like  the  death  that  poor  Duns  Scotus  died, 
Slaughtered  with  pen-knives. 

Don  Lop.  Did  you  hear  the  news  ? 

Don  M.  Whatever  's  new  is  worse  than  last.    What 
is  it? 

Don  Lop.  The  great  Calaynos  is  again  in  town. 
He  came  with  such  a  pomp  of  retinue, 
With  such  barbaric  wealth,  such  trains  of  men  — 
All  clothed  like  Paynirns  of  the  ancient  day  - 
That  wide-mouthed  burghers  thought  Granada's  peers 
Had  scaled  their  graves,  to  fight  for  Spain  once  more. 

Don  H.  Ay,  ay ;  what  would  your  modern  heroes 

do, 

If  this  were  true,  and  all  the  Moors  had  risen  ; 
Headed  by  that  Calaynos,  who  one  day 
Rode  post  to  France,  to  crop  the  Paladins, 


102  CALAYNOS. 

Just  for  more  love  ?    They  'd  drive  you  in  the  sea  — 
'Sblood  !  but  they  'd  make  you  caper  ! 

Don  Lop.  This  one,  sir, 

Is  greater  far  than  he  of  ballad  note  : 
A  braver  man  ne'er  buckled  on  a  blade  ; 
And  then  so  generous  and  polite  withal. 

Don  M.  You  should  have  known  his  grandsire,  as 

I  did. 

His  was  a  blade  would  tire  your  hip  to  bear, 
E'en  in  its  baldric  :  and  he  swung  it  so  ! 
Just  as  a  child  would  waft  about  a  feather.  — 
Here  was  a  drinker  for  you.  —  By  the  gods  I 
A  man  like  him  can  never  come  again  ; 
Earth  is  too  base  for  such.     Ah,  he  was  slain, 
Stabbed  by  an  upstart  coward,  o'er  his  wine. 

Don  Lop.    Methinks  his  drinking  came  to  sorry 
ends. 

Don  M.    'T  was  not   his    drink  ;    't  was  a  cursed 

rapier,  sir, 

Pinned  him  across  the  table.  —  'Sblood,  my  life  ! 
A  manly  blade  had  blushed  at  such  an  act. 
Adieu,  sir  ;  I  must  leave  you.  —  Pshaw  !  what  times  ! 


Don    Lop.    Adieu,    you   drunken   dotard  !      Who 
comes  here  ? 

(Enter  CALATNOS.) 

My  lord  Calaynos,  if  I  know  your  face  ? 
Calaynos.  Don  Lopez  —  am  I  ri^-lit  ? 
Don  Lop.  Your  servant,  sir. 

Cal.  Are  you  sincere  ? 

Don  Lop.  My  heart  cries  shame  on  words. 

Gal.  Then  you  can  do  me  service  'bove  all  thanks. 


CALAYNOS.  103 

There  is  a  man  who  wronged  me  in  Seville, 
Arid  I  would  kill  him.     Do  you  understand  ? 

Don  Lop.    Write  out  the  cartel — ;t  is  a  pleasure, 
sir. 

Gal.  That  have  I  done  long  since  ;  an  hour  ago 
[  sent  it  by  my  secretary. 

Don  Lop.  Heavens  ! 

My  lord,  that  act  is  out  of  every  form  : 
I  wash  my  hands  of  this  ;  't  is  next  to  murder. 

Gal.  Friend,  fear  not  that ;  you  can  escape  the  law. 
Last  night  I  made  my  will,  and  there  I  left, 
To  whom  might  be  my  second,  gold  enough 
To  build  yon  palace.     ;T  is  but  just  I  shield 
Him  whom  my  deeds  involve.     What  say  you,  sir  ? 

Don  Lop.    Nay,   for  the  love  I  bear  you,  I   will 

do  it. 
How  ran  the  challenge  ? 

Gal.  What  can  that  import  ? 

Defiance  to  the  death  ran  through  each  word. 

Don  Lop.    Such   savage  terms  are  out  of  date  and 

harsh. 

Now,  I  'd  have  written  a  most  gentle  billet  — 
As  —  Senor  So-and-so  requests  the  length 
Of  my  lord  So-and-so's  best  tempered  blade  ; 
Or  any  hint,  polite  and  delicate, 
Like  that.     Believe  me,  sir,  a  gentleman 
May  show  much  blood  in  wording  of  a  challenge. 

Gal.  So  I  must  bow  my  opposite  to  death, 
Must  kill  by  line  and  plummet,  to  'scape  blame.  — 
Sir,  I  'm  above  polite  hypocrisy. 

Don  Lop.    Well,    as  you   please.     What  is   youi 
rapier's  length  ? 

Gal.  Here  is  my  sword.     [Gives  his  sword.] 


104 


CALAYNOS. 


Don  Lop.  'T  is  a  most  worthy  blade  ; 

But  near  an  inch  too  short :  and  next  the  hilt  — 
Just  here,  my  lord  —  an  eighth  or  so  too  broad, 
And  nigh  a  pound  too  heavy.     Yet,  for  all, 
A  worthy  blade,  though  somewhat  out  of  fashion. 
A  true  Toledo,  if  I  'in  not  mistaken  ? 

Cal.  Not  so :  no  man  can  tell  its  origin  ; 
But  divers  quaint  and  wondrous  legends  hang 
Their  superstitions  on  this  mystic  steel. 
Some  say  that  'mid  the  globe's  eternal  fires, 
The  laboring  gnomes,  with  many  an  impious  spell, 
That  made  earth  shake  and  stagger  from  her  orbit, 
Tempered  and  forged  the  metal  of  this  blade. 

Don  Lop.    A  wondrous   tale,   more  wonderful  if 
true. 

Cal.  I  cannot  vouch  it. 

Don  Lop.  Ah,  I  nigh  forgot  — 

Whom  do  we  fight  ? 

Cal.  Don  Luis,  sir. 

Don  Lop.  Don  Death ! 

My  lord,  the  man  's  a  practised  duellist ; 
Has  killed  more  scores  than  I  have  met  in  fight. 
He  '11  name  his  thrusts,  before  he  strikes  a  blow, 
And  put  them  home,  despite  your  wariest  skill. 
Then  there  's  his  trick,  a  sleight  he  caught  in  France  — 
Thus,  thus — (Passes.)  — the  shrewdest  thrust  beneath 

the  guard  ; 
'T  is  fatal  as  the  plague. 

Cal.  Enough  of  this. 

We  fight  within  an  hour  —  you  '11  find  me  here. 

Don  Lop.  Your  servant,  sir. —  Adieu!  [Exit.1] 

Cal.  They  're  all  the  same. 

These  grinning  courtiers,  all  smiles  and  bows, 


CALAYNOS.  105 

All  rules  and  etiquette.     Such  are  the  men 

Who  have  our  monarch's  ear,  and  guide  his  councils. 

(Enter  OLIVER.) 

How  sad  you  look  !  —  Did  you  not  find  Don  Luis  ? 

Oliver.  Ah,  yes,  my  lord,  I  found  him  at  a  feast, 
Drinking  and  roaring,  'mid  the  wealth  you  gave. 
He  spied  ine  out,  and  in  politest  terms 
Inquired  your  lordship's  health.     Then  turned  again, 
And  of  my  lady  asked  with  blandest  voice  : 
No  feature  moved  when  I  proclaimed  her  dead. 
With  that  he  rose,  and,  smiling  towards  his  friends, 
Proposed  your  lordship's  health.     'T  was  not  in  fear, 
But  at  the  act  I  shook,  and  my  chilled  blood 
Crawled  coldly  backward  on  its  quivering  source, 
To  see  such  baseness  lodged  in  human  form. 
I  flung  your  challenge  in  the  monster's  face, 
And  came  to  seek  you  here. 

Gal.    The  mocking  villain  !  —  Well,  well,  let  that 

go. 
I  'm  nigh  to  death,  or  I  should  hate  mankind. 

Oli.    0  say  not  so  ;  there  may  be  days  of  peace  — • 

Gal.  His  sword  will  not  rob  life  of  many  hours. 
When  I  left  home  I  felt  I  'd  ne'er  return  ; 
All  things  appeared  so  mournful  to  my  view. 
The  old  trees  shook  their  dark  green  heads  above, 
And  waved  their  branches  as  if  taking  leave  ; 
The  grass  was  bending  with  the  morning  dew, 
Arid  dropped  its  woful  tribute  as  I  passed  ; 
Ay,  and  the  very  flowers,  the  little  flowers, 
Turned  on  me  their  soft  eyes  o'errun  with  tears. 
When  we  had  gained  the  pass  between  the  hills, 
Whose  windings  shut  my  castle  from  the  sight, 


JOG  CALAYNOS. 

I  paused  to  take  one  last,  long  look  at  home. 

Alas  !  the  very  castle  seemed  to  move, 

And  beckon  sadly  in  the  flickering  air ; 

The  old  gray  turrets  wavered  to  and  fro, 

Nodding  their  hoary  heads  as  if  in  grief. 

I  could  not  choose  but  weep  ;  the  man  broke  down, 

And  my  heart  fluttered  like  a  timid  girl's. 

Ah  !  since  her  death,  a  cloud  has  crossed  the  earth, 

And  everywhere  1  see  it.     But  thou  'It  return  : 

Now  swear  to  me,  if  thou  dost  love  me  yet, 

To' do  what  I  command 

Oli.  I  swear,  my  lord. 

Gal,  Thou  know'st  my  latter  days  have  chiefly  past 
In  patient  labors  of  philosophy  ; 
And  from  my  toil  a  studious  book  was  born, 
Whose  gathered  wisdom  was  designed  for  man  — 
Swear  to  destroy  it ! 

Oli.  Pray  forgive  me  this  ; 

I  cannot,  dare  not.     What,  that  mighty  book 
O'er  which  I  've  bent  until  the  stars  grew  dim, 
Arid  morning  caught  me  o'er  the  magic  page ; 
Forgetful  of  my  task,  my  pen  all  dry, 
Enrapt  in  reading  what  I  should  have  copied  ? 
0,  pardon  me,  my  lord  ;  't  would  be  a  crime 
Worse  than  oath-breaking,  worse  than  blasphemy ! 

Gal.  Didst  thou  love  Dona  Alda,  Oliver  ? 

Oli.  Past  love,  my  lord  ;  but  now  I  love  her  more. 

Gal.  A"nd  wouldst  thou  see  some  scribbler  drag 

her   name, 

Coupled  to  infamy  and  red-cheeked  shame, 
Or  slirned  with  pity  of  a  vulgar  mind, 
Into  the  preface  of  a  book  you  love  ?  — 
Wouldst  see  her  live  in  misery  immortal, 


CALAYNOS.  101 

Preserved  for  time  coldly  to  comment  on  ?  — 

Wouldst  have  her  memory,  which  you  hold  so  dear, 

Bandied  about,  the  scoff  and  jest  of  fools  ? 

No,  no  ;  before  this  bitter  thing  shall  be, 

Let  rny  name  perish  from  the  thoughts  of  men. 

Oli.  And  wouldst  thou  die  in  very  name,  my  lord  ? 
Gal.  Only  in  name,  — no  further  can  I  die. 
Oli.  We  know  not  that. 
Gal.         Know  not !  then  vain  is  knowledge. 
All  nature  cries  —  Whatever  is,  must  be  ! 
Earth's  forms  may  change,  but  time  can  ne'er  destroy 
The  smallest  atom  in  the  universe  ; 
Much  less  this  life  of  intellect,  the  soul, 
Whose  very  form  is  changeless.  —  Death  is  not ! 
Serene,  and  calm,  and  indestructible, 
Above  the  touch  of  chance,  or  sin,  or  time, 
On  these  heaven-scaling  attributes  shall  soar, 
In  infinite  progression  towards  their  source  :  — 
In  death  is  knowledge  ! 

Oli.  I  will  do  it,  sir. 

Gal.  Enough,  I  shall  die  happy.     Get  thee  hence, 
And  have  my  servants  near  the  meeting  place, 
To  bear  me  from  the  field.     But,  on  their  lives, 
Let  them  not  interfere  till  all  is  o'er  ; 
And  should  Don  Luis  kill  me,  let  him  pass. 

Oli.  They  may,  but  I  will  not.     (Aside.)     I  '11  see 
'tis  done.  [Exit] 

(Enter  DON  LOPEZ.) 

Don  Lopez.  The  terms  are  all  agreed ;  though,  I 

declare, 

I  had  some  trouble  with  that  old  Miguel  — 
He  is  Don  Luis'  second.     By  this  light ! 


108  CALAYNOS. 

He  M  mounted  you,  with  lances  in  your  hands, 
To  run  a  tilt  like  Quixotes.     Tell  me,  sir, 
Does  the  first  blood  decide  the  combat  o'er. 

Calaynos.  The  first  death,  sir,  decides  this  combat 

o'er. 
Don  Lop.    Of  course,  of  course  ;  but  death  is  our 

of  date : 

'T  is  not  the  way  we  fight  in  these  fair  days  : 
Now  gentlemen  may  fight  without  a  scratch. 
I  do  assure  you,  sir,  that  in  a  duel 
Life  is  as  safe  as  if  you  sat  in  church ; 
You  have  the  honor  without  fear  of  harm.  — 
Will  not  the  first  blood  do  ? 

Gal.  I  'm  of  a  race 

Who  seldom  drew  a  sword  except  to  kill ; 
They  never  bled,  like  leeches,  nor  will  I : 
Death,  and  not  honor,  is  the  thing  I  wish. 
This  duel,  friend,  did  not  originate 
From  treading  on  a  toe  without  excuse. 

Don  Lop.    'T  is  out  of  date  ;  but  as  you  pleane, 

my  lord. 
Have  you  e'er  fought  before  ? 

Gal  No,  not  of  late  : 

But,  in  my  youth,  through  Salamanca's  school 
I  fought  my  way,  and  lost  no  credit  there. 

Don  Lop.    Ah,  yes  ;  I  Ve  heard,  they   ever  held 

your  blade 

The  foremost  steel  in  Salamanca's  walls  : 
;T  is  a  good  school.  — But  watch  his  French  device  — 
The  thrust  beneath  the  guard.     ;T  is  nigh  the  time. 
Gal.  Then,  sir,  lead  on.     'T  is  ne'er  too  soon  for 
me.  [Exeunt.] 


CALAYNOS.  109 


SCENE  III. 

The  Fields  near  Seville.     Enter  DON  Luis  and  DON  MIGUEL, 
meeting  CALAYNOS,  DON  LOPEZ,  and  OLIVER. 

Don  Lopez.  Stand  here,  my  lord. 
Galaynos.  Let  there  be  no  delay. 

Don  Miguel.     (To  DON  Luis.)     Stand  here,  my  boy. 
Don  Luis.    (Aside.)    He  's  ill  ;  I  '11  kill  him  easily. 

(DON  LOPEZ  and  DON  MIGUEL  advance.) 

Don  Lop.     'T  is  a  fine  day,  and    this   a   glorious 

ground. 
Don  M.  Yes,  for  a  fight  with  good   old-fashioned 

blades. 

Don  Lop.   Excuse  me,  sir,  but  we  must  follow  cus 
tom. 

Don  M.  Yes,  afar  off.  — Here  is  Don  Luis'  skewer. 

[Gives  the  sword."] 
Don  Lop.  (Measuring.)  'T  is  full  an  inch  too  long. 

—  I  sent  the  measure  — 
There  's  no  excuse  — they  cannot  fight  to-day. 

Don  M.  What  cares  a  man  against  an  inch  or  two  ? 
Bah  !  on  your  forms  !    His  grandsire,  in  his  day, 
Would  draw  his  dagger  'gainst  an  ashen  spear. 

Don  Lop.  I  have  a  name,  sir,  among  gentlemen, 
Which  I  '11  not  hazard  on  so  grave  a  thing. 

Oliver.    (Advancing.)    Why  pause  you,  gentlemen  ? 

My  lord  is  ill, 
And  loses  strength  by  standing  such  a  time. 

Don  Lop.  Don  Luis'  blade  is  full  an  inch  too  long. 
Oli.  The  murderous  coward  !     [Aside.} 

I  Goes  to  CALAYNOS  and  returns.} 


110  CALAYNOS. 

Go  on,  gentlemen  ; 
If 't  is  a  foot  too  long,  my  lord  cares  not. 

Don  M.  Said  like  his   grandsire  :  —  there  the  old 

blood  spoke  ! 

Don  Lop.  Well,  as  he  wills  ;  but  I  again  protest  — 
You  '11  bear  me  witness,  sir,  before  the  world  ? 
Don  M.  Yes,  yes.     Stand  here,  my  friend. 

[To  DON  Luis.] 

Don  Lop.  Stand  here,  my  lord.    [To  CALAYNOS.] 

Draw,  sirs  —  advance  —  guard  — 

Don  M.  God  defend  the  right ! 

Don  Lop.    Heavens  !    what  queer  phrases  has  this 
antique  man  !  [Aside.] 

(CALAYNOS  and  DON  Lvisfiyht.) 

My  man  fights  well. 

Don  M.  He  fights  too  much  for  blood  : 

He  Ml  catch  a  wound. 

Don  Lop.    There  's  his  French  trick  —  I  knew  it ! 

(CALAYNOS  is  wounded.) 

.  Lopez  and  Miguel.  Hold,  gentlemen  ! 
Cal.  Stand  back  —  beware  Calaynos  ! 

Don  M.  Thus  spoke  his  grandsire  when  his  blood 

was  up. 
Don  Lop.    Again  ! 

(CALAYNOS  is  icounded.) 

Lopez  and  Miguel         Hold,  gentlemen  —  forbear, 
forbear ! 

(They  rush  between.) 

Don  Lop.  Are  you  not  satisfied  ? 

Don  Luis.  I  am,  for  one. 

Cal.  I  came  to  die,  or  be  that  villain's  death  !- 


CALAYXOS.  Ill 

Stand  from  between  us  ;  or,  by  heaven's  great  king, 
I  '11  make  a  path  across  your  carcasses  ! 

Don  Lop.     Well,  well,  go  on  — but  this  is  bloody 
work  I 

(Tkeyfiyht :  CALAYNOS  disarms  DON  Luis.) 

Cal.  Turn  dog,  and  fly  ! 

Don  Luis.  Not  while  I  've  legs  to  stand. 

Gal.  Down,  down  and  beg  ! 

Don  Luis.  No,  never  to  a  Moor  1 

Cal.  Ha,  wretch  !     [Kills  DON  Luis.] 

(CALAYNOS  staggers  and  falls.) 

Oli.  My  lord,  you  're  wounded. 

Cal.  Yes,  to  death. 

Come  nearer,  son  —  I  have  short  time  to  live.  — 
Why  dost  thou  weep  ? 

Oli.  0,  why  do  I  not  die  ? 

Cal.    Nay,  live,  dear  Oliver,  to  think  of  us  — 
Of  poor,  poor  Alda,  and  her  buried  lord  : 
Thou  'It  come  at  sun-down  o'er  the  dewy  grass, 
And  kneel  beside  us,  and  thou  'It  pray  for  her. 
Was   she   not  wronged?  —  but   pure,  but  pure   as 
heaven  1 

Oli.  Most  pure,  my  lord. 

Cal.  0  bless  thee,  for  those  words  ! 

Come  close,  my  son  :  thou  wert  my  only  friend, 
And  next  to  Alda  in  my  heart  thou  stoodst. 
Wilt  thou  forgive  me  the  harsh  words  I  said, 
For  that  false  man  —  by  Heaven's  arm  smote,  not 
mine  ? 

Oli.  0  woe  !    0  woe  !  —  Nay,  nay,  't  was  all  my 
fault. 


112  CALAYNOS. 

Cat.  Not  so  —  come  nearer.     Thou  wilt  bury  me 
Next  to  dear  Alda.  —  Now  sweet  death  draws  on  : 
I  feel  his  icy  breath  upon  my  cheek  — 
The  gates  of  knowledge  lift  to  let  me  in  — 
Already,  half  the  mystery  of  life 
Rolls  from  my  soul,  like  a  divided  veil ! 
The  secrets  of  the  universe  unclose, 
And  I  am  filled  with  light ! 

Oli.  0,  mighty  soul ! 

Gal.  Stand  from  before  me  —  give  me  air —  I  choke. 
Next  Alda  —  next  my  wife  —  wife  —  0  !          [Dies.] 

Oli.  The  stony  world  may  smile  at  broken  hearts  ; 
But  there  lies  one  cracked  to  the  very  core. 
(Enter  Servants,  and  group  round  the  body.) 
Tread  softly  —  here  is  death  ! 


ANNE    BOLE  IN 

A  TRAGEDY. 


VOL    I.  8 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


HENRY  VIII., King  of  England. 

DUKE  OF  NORFOLK, Uncle  to  the  Queen. 

DUKE  OF  SUFFOLK. 

DUKE  OF  RICHMOND, Natural  son  of  the  King. 

MARQUIS  OF  EXETER. 
EARL  OF  ARUNDEL. 

VISCOUNT  ROCHFORD, Brother  to  the  Queen. 

THOMAS  WYATT. 

SIR  HENRY  NORRIS, Groom  of  the  Chamber. 

SIR  WILLIAM  KINGSTON, Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 

MARK  SMEATON, Groom  of  the  Chamber. 

RALPH  LONEY, A  creature  of  Suffolk's. 

QUEEN  ANNE, Formerly  Anne  Boleyn. 

JANE  SEYMOUR, A  Maid  of  Honor. 

MARY  WYATT, A  Maid  of  Honor,  sister  to 

Thomas  Wyatt. 

VISCOUNTESS  ROCIII  niti>, Sister-in-law  to  the  Queen. 

LADY  BOLEYN, Aunt  to  the  Queen. 

MRS.  COSYNS. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Knights,  Ushers,  three  Informers,  Officers,  Her- 
aids,  Guards,  Citizens,  Attendants,  fyc. 

SCENE,  London  and  Greenwich. 
TIME,  A.  D.  1536. 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


ACT     I. 

SCENE  I.  A  Room  in  Whitehall  Palace.  Enter,  as  from  the 
Council,  Duke  of  NORFOLK,  Duke  of  SUFFOLK,  Duke  of  RICH 
MOND,  Marquis  of  EXETER,  and  Earl  of  ARUNDEL. 

Norfolk.    NAY,   nay,   my   lords,    affairs   must  not 

stand  thus. 

She  is  my  kinswoman,  and  I  confess, 
If  but  on  my  estate  her  influence  bore, 
I  ;d  pass  it  by  unchecked.     No  private  griefs 
Should  wring  a  word  from  me,  nor  tutor  me 
To  raise  the  hand  that  snaps  a  natural  tie. 
But  see,  my  lords  — 

Suffolk.  70ds  blood  !  we  have  seen  enough  : 

We  have  been  open-eyed,  your  grace  of  Norfolk. 
I  trust  we  hold  one  mind  ? 

All.  We  do,  we  do. 

Suf.    Why,  then,  your  grace,  we  have  stared  our 
selves  stone  blind, 

Stared  all  our  man  to  palsied  impotence, 
At  this  she-basilisk.     Some  years  ago, 
From  the  mere  dregs  and  offscourings  of  your  house, 


116  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

We  saw  this  girl  emerge,  and  step  by  step 
Crawl  slowly  upward  to  the  top  of  power  — 
Why,  she  was  queen  before  her  crown  was  on  !  — 
Till,  now,  she  threatens  us  from  such  a  throne 
Of  downright  rule  as  queen  ne'er  held  before. 
Nay,  pucker  riot  your  brows,  good  Duke  of  Richmond 
While  conscience  echoes  what  1  bluntly  speak  : 
Your  royal  father,  more  than  any  here, 
Has  felt  her  deadly  witchcraft. 

Richmond.  Fie,  for  shame  ! 

I  thought  this  meeting  one  of  policy  : 
It  never  crossed  me  that  five  stalwart  men 
Had  leagued  their  brains  to  gabble  scandal  thus 
Of  a  poor  queen,  whose  sole  discovered  crime  — 
Heaven  send  a  rain  of  such  bewildering  sin  !  — 
Is  too  much  beauty. 

Nor.  Therein  lies  her  power. 

Rich.   Then  we  depute  you,  as  her  nearest  kin, 
To  play  Saint  Dunstan  to  this  fair  Elgiva ; 
To  raze  her  eyes  out,  sear  her  blushing  skin, 
Twist  off  her  nose,  and  slit  her  pretty  mouth  ; 
But  0,  'fore  heaven  !  lay  not  your  manhoods  off, 
And  stand  here  railing  like  a  pack  of  drabs  ! 

Arundel.   Patience,  your  grace  ;  let  Suffolk  have 

his  say ; 
This  was  but  prelude  to  the  main  affair. 

Rich.    Nay,  if  his  song  cannot  out-go  that  pitch, 
Henceforth  I  '11  herd  with  women.     Know,  my  lords, 
To  ease  you  of  her  beauty's  deadly  grief, 
Her  so-called  strongest  hold,  my  father's  love, 
Is  well-nigh  yielded  to  a  nimble  wight,  — 
No  higher  than  your  arm,  your  grace  of  Suffolk,  - 
Through  herald  words,  and  showers  of  gentle  looks. 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  117 

Therefore,  I  counsel  we  withdraw  our  powers 
Of  bearded  men,  nor  strive  to  win  by  storrn 
That  woman's  citadel,  our  sovereign's  heart. 

Suf.    Your   grace    may   flout  arid  game   at  Holy 

Writ, 

Or  any  solemn  truth  ;  nor  stands  a  fact 
Less  in  repute,  because  an  empty  jest 
Has  cracked  thereon,  and  shown  its  hollowness. 

Rich.    I  cry  you  mercy,  lord  of  gravity  ! 
Now  wherefore  meet  we  ?     Exeter,  speak  out. 
You  have  not  strayed  away  in  idle  words  ; 
From  which  I  argue  you  have  kept  to  heart 
This  grave  affair. 

Exeter.  Thus  is  it,  then,  my  lords  : 

We  all  have  sorrowing  seen  the  growing  power 
Of  her  we  call  the  queen  —  we  call,  I  say  ; 
For,  in  my  humble  judgment,  Katharine, 
Our  sometime  mistress  — 

Rich.  Heaven  defend  us  all ! 

He  '11  talk  till  cock-crow  on  that  threadbare  theme. 
Will  no  one  help  us  ?     Is  there  no  one  here 
Who  knows  exactly  why  five  fools  have  met  ? 

Nor.   Thus,  then,  your  grace.    We  peers  have  nigh 

become 
A  mere  incumbrance  in  the  council-seats. 

Rich.    Why,  here  is  a  man  who  has  his  wits  alive ! 

Nor.    Spare  me,  your  grace ;  too  heavy  this  for 
sport. 

Rich.    Well,  I  '11  be  silent  till  the  end.     Go  on. 

Nor.    This  spawn  of  ours,  whom  I  must  blush  to 
own  — 

Rich.   Ha  !  more  abuse  ! 

Nor.  —  Usurps  the  state  entire  ; 


118  AXXE    BOLEYX. 

Makes    and    breaks    treaties ;    changes   faiths   and 

priests  ; 

Empties  the  treasury,  and  fills  it  up, 
By  loans  and  taxes,  such  as  she  may  will ; 
Sends  one  abroad,  and  calls  another  home  ; 
Orders  a  marquis  here,  and  there  a  duke. 
All  this  she  does,  and  more  than  I  can  name, 
With  but  such  counsel  as  her  wits  may  lend, 
Counting  us  peers  as  toys. 

Rich.  Ah,  now  indeed 

We  reach  the  body  of  things  politic. 
If  't  is  a  fight  of  wits,  I  am  with  you,  sirs  ; 
Though,  I  misgive,  we  shall  be  shrewdly  cuffed. 

Suf.    All  this  —  your  grace  of  Richmond,  mark  we 

well  — 

All  this  unqueenly  power  she  strictly  holds 
By  the  fond  tenure  of  our  sovereign's  love. 
Let  but  the  light,  which  now  he  suns  her  in, 
Vanish  in  frowns,  and  this  same  haughty  moon, 
That  floods  our  prospect  with  her  filched  beams, 
Sinks  to  her  native  blackness. 

Rich.  So,  stop  there  I 

My  lords,  I  '11  join  you  in  your  enterprise 
Against  the  sweet  usurpings  of  our  queen, 
Perchance,  when  I  behold  you  four  tall  men 
Ranked  on  Tower  Hill,  the  headsman  standing  by  ; 
When  meek-faced  Suffolk  is  about  to  say, 
"Good  people,  I  confess  I  suffer  justly." 

Arun.    Exeter,   I  have  caught   cold  by  standing 

here ; 

I  feel  the  shrewdest  of  rheumatic  pains 
Twitching  my  spine  above  the  shoulder-blades.  — 
I  must  withdraw.      [Apart  to  Exeter."} 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  119 

Ex.  Nay,  nay,  stand  fast ;  he  jests. 

JRich.  When  noble  Norfolk's  humbly-worded  letter, 
"  Touching  his  close  connection  with  the  queen," 
Meets  in  reply  her  gracious  writ  of  death  ; 
When  scurvy  poets  sing  in  bastard  rhymes, 
"  The  doleful  ballad  of  lord  Arundel ;  " 
When  slip-shod  wenches,  with  out-popping  eyes, 
And  all  unbreathed,  pant  out  to  passers  by, 
"Pray,  tell  me,  sirs,  where  dies  false  Exeter  ?  " 
Then  will  I  aid  you,  then  I  '11  run  amain, 
Grovel  and  crawl,  and  kiss  the  royal  shoe, 
And  howl  for  pardon  which  she  will  not  grant.  — 
Till  then,  adieu ! 

Nor.  Your  grace  will  keep  our  counsel  ? 

Rich.  Zounds  I    I   am  a  gentleman ;    and  prove  it, 

sir, 

By  having  better  business  to  my  hands 
Than  the  undoing  of  my  female  kin.  [Exit.] 

Ex.    He  's  a  hot  heart ;  but  such  are  mostly  true. 

Suf.    What  was  the  hint  yon  brain-struck  bastard 

dropped 
About  the  king's  love  suffering  change  to  Anne  ? 

Arun.    Nay,   I  know  not ;    he   dealt  so  much  in 

tropes  : 

His  grace  of  Norfolk  is  a  poet's  father, 
He  may  resolve  us. 

Nor.  I  have  thought  of  that. 

'T  was  a  bare  hint,  but  worth  our  scrutiny. 

Ex.    Ay,  ay,  indeed. 

Suf.  I  half  believe  it  meant  : 

When  Richmond  bays,  there  is  store  of  game  afoot ; 
We  have  found  it  so. 


120  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Nor.  I  '11  to  his  majesty. 

If  this  prove  true,  our  cause  is  well-nigh  won. 

Suf.   Your  grace  will  summon  us  to  hear  the  news  ? 

Nor.   Trust  me  ;  if  true,  I  '11  be  too  full  to  hold. 

Arun.    Methinks  the  country  air  would  ease  these 

aches 

About  my  neck ;  another  talk  like  this 
Nigh  wrench  my  head  off.     [Aside.] 

Nor.  Till  we  meet,  farewell  ! 

Be  secret,  but  be  watchful. 

Exe.  Time  is  fate. 

Suf.   We  have  not  pulled  the  crafty  Wolsey  down, 
To  whimper  tamely  at  a  woman's  heels !        [Exeunt.] 


SCENE  H. 

Another  Room  in  the  Palace.     Enter  JANE  SEYMOUR,  pursued  by 
KING  HENRY. 

King  Henry.  0,  prithee,  tarry  !  I  am  out  of  wind  — 
I  '11  not  have  breath  to  tell  you  how  I  love. 
Stand,  I  adjure  you,  on  your  loyalty  I 

Jane  Seymour.  Now  am  I  safe  ;  I  owe  you  loyalty, 
And  you  owe  me  protection.     [Kneels.] 

King  H.  Nonsense,  child  !    [Raises  her.] 

You  are  far  safer  with  plain  Harry  Tudor, 
Than  if  the  monarchs  of  all  Christendom 
Circled  you  round.     For  what  are  angry  swords 
To  the  raised  finger  of  the  baby  Love  ? 
I  say,  I  love  you  ;  that  implies  respect. 

Jane  S.  Respect  should  teach  you  not  to  urge  your 
love. 


ANNE    BOLEYJf.  121 

King  H.    Sweetheart,    pray   hear   me.      I  am  all 

unused 

To  lover's  logic,  to  the  mincing*  phrase 
That  snares  a  heart  in  nets  of  sophistry ; 
I  '11  not  attack  your  passion  through  your  brain  ; 
But  at  your  love's  unconquered  citadel 
I  '11  sit  rne  down,  with  rough,  unmannered  haste, 
And  bid  you  open  in  your  sovereign's  name. 
Jane,  do  you  love  me  ? 

Jane  S.  With  all  duty,  sir. 

King  H.    Tut,  tut  I  no  duty.     Would  you  be  my 
queen  ? 

Jane  S.    Your  wife,  my  liege  ;  the  tempting  name 

of  queen 

Makes  no  addition  to  a  loving  mind. 
Love  asks  but  love. 

King  H.  So,  well  said,  mistress  mine  ! 

I  never  thought  to  win  your  dainty  heart 
By  bartering  for  it  an  unfeeling  crown. 
Love  comes  unsought,  nor  heeds  the  voice  of  power : 
The  very  gem  which,  from  his  purple  throne, 
A  fuming  king  may  gaze  and  thunder  for, 
Beneath  the  willows  of  some  muddy  brook 
A  listless  rustic  may  disclose  and  wear. 
Then,  as  mere  Hal,  the  shepherd,  if  you  list  — 
Barring  all  sovereignty  with  equal  terms  — 
Say,  do  you  love  me  ?     [Kneels.'} 

Jane  S.  Maiden  shame,  my  liege  — 

King  H.  Liege  me  no  more  —  Hal — Harry  —  what 
you  will. 

Jane  S.  My  maiden  heart  should  send  its  blushing 

force 
Of  startled  blood  to  whelm  my  guilty  face, 


122  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

While  I  stand  parleying  with  her  dearest  foe  ; 
Yet  am  I  pale  —  ah  !  pale  with  fear  to  think 
What  woful  fate  may  be  reserved  for  me, 
If  onr  right  noble  queen  — 

King  H.  Hell  blast  the  queen  !     [Starts  up.] 

Jane  S.    Ha  !  did  I  gall  you  so?     (Aside.)     0  par 
don  me  ! 

King  H.    Girl,   I  am  well-nigh  maddened  by  the 

queen. 

A  pack  of  yelling  fancies  bait  my  soul, 
And  each  tongue  seems  to  cheer  the  horrid  rout, 
When  my  fierce  conscience  cries  —  The  queen,  the 
queen  ! 

Jane  S.    0,  had  I  suffered  her  extremest  rage, 
Ere  I  thus  angered  you  ! 

King  H.  Nay,  I  '11  not  scold. 

Forgive  me,  sweetheart,  my  unmannered  spleen. 
My  soul  is  much  perplexed  and  tempest-tossed 
About  my  marriage  with  this  cunning  queen  : 
I  fear  me,  Lucifer  made  her  a  bait 
To  trap  my  soul. 

Jane  S.  0,  you  arch  hypocrite  !     [Aside.] 

King  H.    Methinks  the  Pope  was  right  —  ay,  must 

be  right ; 
Since  by  the  creed  he  is  infallible.  — 

Jane  S.    Not  by  the  new  one. 

King  H.  There  the  sorrow  lies  : 

I  have  main  doubts  of  our  new-gendered  creed. 
If  he  be  right,  then  is  our  union  void  ; 
For,  by  his  voice,  poor  Katharine  was  my  wife.  — 
I  will  consult  my  lords  on  this  grave  point. 

Jane  S.    Your  nobles  wear  your  eyes  ;  but,  then, 
the  people  — 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  123 

King  H.    I  '11  make  half  England  see  without  their 

heads, 

But  I  will  wed  you  !     Sweetheart,  promise  me, 
If  I  can  offer  an  unmortgaged  hand, 
That  you  will  take  it. 

Jane  S.  Thus  I  promise  you.     [Gives  her  hand.] 

King  H.  When  next  we  meet,  I  '11  show  you  many 

a  way, 

To  lead  us  from  this  labyrinth  of  doubt, 
As  soft  and  thornless  to  your  pretty  feet 
As  the  rich  velvet  whereon  you  shall  tread 
To  mount  the  dais  of  our  English  throne. 
Till  then,  adieu ! 

(They  separate  —  she  rushes  back.) 

Jane  S.  Sweet  Harry,  be  not  rash  I 

King  H.  0,1  would  fawn,  and  play  the  stricken  cur 
To  any  groom,  whose  love-illumined  wit 
Could  steal  from  time  the  weary  chain  of  days 
That  links  our  purpose  to  its  hopeful  end. 

[Exeunt  severally.] 


SCENE  III. 

Jin  Ante-room  in  the  Palace.   Enter  the  Duke  of  NORFOLK,  meet 
ing  an  USHER. 

Norfolk.    Has  the  king  risen  ? 

Usher.  Anon  he  will  come  forth. 

Nor.    I  will  await  him. 

Ush.  That  is  spared  your  grace. 


124  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

{Enter  KINO  HENRY.) 

King  Henry.    Ha!    Norfolk,    Norfolk,    you    have 

come  in  time  ; 

There  is  no  face  more  welcome  than  your  own. 
I  'd  rather  see  you,  in  this  private  way, 
Than  in  your  dignity  of  counsellor. 

Nor.    Your  majesty  overrates  my  little  worth. 

King  H.    Not  a  whit,  man.     Sir  Usher,  keep   the 

door  ; 
Let  no  one  enter  till  his  grace  withdraws.  [Exit  USUKR.] 

Nor.    I  came  on  business  of  her  majesty  — 

King  H.    'Ods  blood!  the  queen  again!     Enough, 

good  Norfolk. 

I  have  met  no  man  since  I  arose  to-day, 
Who  came  not  whimpering  of  her  majesty. 
Pray  change  your  style  ;  the  fashion  had  grown  stale 
Ere  you  were  up. 

Nor.  0  ho  !  and  how  is  this  ?    [Aside.] 

King  H.    Norfolk,  't  is  pitiful  I    No  hour  last  night, 
But  my  sharp  senses,  tuned  to  painful  pitch, 
Started,  like  guilt,  upon  the  faintest  sound  ; 
The  very  mice  stalked  by  like  sentinels 
Ringing  in  proof;  the  clock  beside  my  bed 
Hammered  the  hours  like  a  gross  forging  smith  ; 
The  gentlest  gust  of  air  howled  like  the  damned ; 
And  when  a  noise,  which  in  the  joyous  day 
Would  scarce  make  damsels  wink,  fell  on  my  ear, 
Up  from  my  restless  bed,  like  one  possessed, 
I  bounded,  with  wide-stretched  and  glaring  eyes, 
And  half  cried  —  Treason  ! 

Nor.  Sir,  I  am  amazed. 

Shall  I  go  seek  your  majesty's  physicians  ? 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  125 

King  H-     Ah  !    't  is  a  grief  their  physic  cannot 

touch. 
My  conscience,  Norfolk. 

Nor.  Hum  !  join  this  to  that, 

And  I  might  get  some  credit  as  a  prophet.       [Aside.] 

King  H.    My  conscience  —  0  ! 

Nor.  And  'twas  his  "  conscience,  0  !  " 

Made  such  a  pother  ere  Queen  Katharine  fell. 


King  H.    Nay  ;  do  you  hear  me  ?  't  was  my  con 

science,  sir. 
Nor.    Certes,  within  a  month,  another  queen. 

[Aside.] 

Grief  has  bereft  me  of  the  power  of  speech. 
Might  Cranmer  help  you  ? 

King  H.  No  ;  you  are  the  man. 

Nor.    Deign  to  unfold  your  majesty's  distress  ; 
And  what  so  weak  a  man  as  Norfolk  can, 
He  '11  gladly  undertake. 

King  H.  Hear,  then,  the  cause. 

You  know  our  present  queen  —  [Listens.] 
Nor.  And  hear  her,  too. 

Queen  Anne.   (  Without.}    What,  sir,  deny  me  to  his 

majesty  ? 
Usher.     (Without.)     But  'tis  his   majesty's    direct 

command. 

Queen  A.    (Without.)    Stand  from  before  me  ;  I  will 
answer  it. 

(Enter  QUEEN  ANNE,  followed  by  the  USHER.) 

Queen  A.    Your  highness  — 

King  H.  Fellow  with  an  usher's  wand, 

Hand  me  your  cane.    Begone,  your  place  is  wanted  ! 


12G  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Ush.   Your  highness,  'twas  the  queen  — 

King  H.  Knave,  bite  your  tongue, 

Or  you  may  talk  your  head  off' !     Fly,  I  say  1 
And  if  within  the  precincts  of  our  court 
Your  traitor  face  be  seen  two  hours  from  now, 
I  '11  break  your  body  in  as  many  pieces 
As  this  frail  stick  !      [Breaks  up  the  wand.] 

[  Ex  it  USHER.] 

Queen  A.  Nay,  royal  sir,  I  pray 

Some  show  of  mercy  to  yon  guiltless  man. 
If  there  was  fault,  believe  it  mine  alone  : 
He  dared  not  stop  my  entrance. 

King  H.  Say  you  so  ? 

Well,  madam,  I  believe  it  yours  alone  : 
And  much  it  vexes  us  that  you,  our  queen, 
Whose  acts  should  but  reflect  our  royal  will, 
Show,  thus,  a  glass  whence  every  traitor's  eye 
May  take  the  foul  impression  of  himself. 

Queen  A.  My  liege,  forgive  my  over-zealous  haste ; 
The  cause  that  brought  me  is  no  common  one. 
Our  faithful  Protestants  in  Germany 
Are  sorely  pressed  — 

King  H.  If  they  be  pressed  to  death, 

I  care  not.     There  are  those  within  my  realm, 
Gross,  headstrong  Protestants,  puffed  up  with  pride, 
Who  should  be  sent  abroad  to  get  a  squeeze. 

Nor.   Ha !  ha !  your  majesty.     [Laughing.] 

Queen  A.  What  owl  is  that 

Crying  so  merrily  as  shadows  thicken  ? 
0,  I  beseech  your  majesty,  sustain 
The  noble  cause  so  happily  begun  ! 
You  are  the  instrument,  by  Heaven  picked  out 
From  all  the  famous  potentates  of  earth, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  12t 

To  work  its  high  behest.     Yea,  after  times 

Shall  lay  your  memory  as  a  sacred  thing 

Upon  their  altars,  radiant  with  such  beams, 

Shot  clear  from  heaven,  that  slander's  eagle  eye, 

Dazzled  with  light,  can  challenge  no  defect 

Most  blessed  of  men  !  when  the  great  trump  of  doom 

Shall  to  its  centre  crack  the  startled  world, 

And  cheek  by  cheek  the  king  and  slave  awake, 

Think  what  a  band  of  heaven-persuading  saints 

Shall  circle  God,  and  raise  their  tongues  for  you  ! 

King  H.    Why  here  's  Erasmus  in  a  farthingale  ! 
What  say  you,  Norfolk  ? 

Nor.  Nothing  now,  my  liege  : 

My  brain  is  clearer  in  the  council-room. 
I  pray  her  majesty,  the  queen,  may  cease 
To  load  her  spirits  with  our  state  affairs : 
The  rugged  shoulders  of  tried  counsellors 
Can  scarce  endure  the  burden  of  these  times ; 
And  much  I  fear  — 

Queen  A.  I  see  through  what  you  mean, 

Good  uncle  Norfolk.     You  are  one  of  those 
Big  bloated  toads  that  cumber  up  sweet  earth, 
A  mere  deformity  in  common  sight ; 
Yet,  'neath  the  royal  sun,  you  swell  and  swell, 
Blinking  your  dull  but  self-sufficient  eyes 
Around  the  narrow  bound  your  view  may  grasp, 
And  then  shake  heaven  with  angel  merriment, 
To  hear  you  splutter —  "  Lord,  all  this  is  ours  !  " 

King  H.    'Ods  wounds  !  forbear  I 

Nor.  I  '11  give  receipt  for  this.     [Aside.] 

King  H.    Why  rate  you  thus  our  friend  and  coun 
sellor  ? 


128  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Your  uncle  Norfolk,  whose  unfaltering  zeal 
Has  seemed  to  be  the  shadow  of  our  will !  - 
Queen  A.  But  seen  in  sunshine. 
King  H.  If  't  would  please  your  highness 

To  blow  these  noxious  vapors  from  your  mind, 
Have  pity  on  us,  nor  infect  our  ears. 

Queen  A.  Your  pardon,  sir,  if  my  unbroken  tongue 
For  once  ran  riot  with  my  better  sense. 
King  H.    Ay,  'tis  a  wilful  jade. 
Queen  A.  But  hear  me  out. 

King  H.  We  '11  make  no  purchase  from  the  samples 

given  — 

Preaching  and  railing.     'T  is  but  courtesy, 
If  you  require  this  room,  that  we  withdraw. 
Come,  Norfolk,  come.  —  What  said  his  holiness  ? 

[Exit,  leaning  on  NORFOLK.] 
Queen  A.    What  means  this  heavy  feeling  at  my 

heart  ? 

What  means  the  king  by  this  unwonted  coldness  ? 
What  means  my  uncle  by  his  insolence  ? 
Why  stood  the  king  with  an  approving  smile, 
And  heard  my  most  unnatural  enemy 
Offer  reproof  in  semblance  of  advice  ? 
I  have  seen  the  time  —  ay,  not  a  month  ago  — 
When,  in  the  fury  of  his  lion  mood, 
He  'd  brained  the  scoffer  with  his  royal  hand. 
But  times  have  changed  — ah!  have  they  changed 

indeed  ? 

Has  my  life  passed  the  zenith  of  its  glory  ? 
Must  I  make  ready  for  the  gathering  clouds 
That  dog  the  pathway  of  a  setting  sun  ? 
Well,  let  them  come !     The  blaze  of  my  decline 
Shall  turn  to  gold  the  dull  enshrouding  mists, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  129 

And  show  the  world  a  spectacle  more  grand 

Than  the  young  splendor  in  which  first  I  rose. 

Ha  !  ha  !  par  Dieu  !  now  this  is  marvellous  ! 

A  queen  whose  crown  has  scarcely  ta'en  the  shape 

Of  her  young  brow,  the  anointing  oil  scarce  dried, 

The  shouts  still  buzzing  in  my  deafened  ears, 

With  which  the  people  hailed  rne  on  the  throne  ; 

Not  two  years  queen,  and  moralizing  thus, 

Like  fourscore  crawling  to  its  certain  grave ! 

This  is  sheer  weakness,  the  dull  malady 

Of  little  minds  that  chafe  at  little  ills. 

Great  souls  are  cheerful  with  their  inborn  power, 

Feeling  themselves  the  rulers  of  events, 

The  sinewy  smoothers  of  the  roughest  times, 

And  not  the  slaves  of  outward  influence. 

Despair  is  a  fellow  with  a  moody  brow, 

Who'  shuts  a  dungeon  door  upon  himself, 

And  then  groans  at  his  bondage.     Fear,  avaunt ! 

Thy  shades  but  trespass  on  my  noon  of  power. 

(Several    Courtiers   cross   the   stage,   bowing.      Enter    THOMAS 
WYATT.) 

Ho  !  Wyatt,  hither. 

Wyatt.  Did  your  highness  call  ? 

Queen  A.  Where  go  you,  sir  ? 

Wyatt.  I  and  these  gentlemen, 

Inflamed  with  holy  zeal  of  selfishness, 
Make  to  the  Mecca  of  our  hopes,  the  king, 
A  solemn  pilgrimage. 

Queen  A.  What  news  abroad  ? 

Wyatt.    Not  a  breath  stirring. 

Queen  A.  Say  they  aught  of  me  ? 

VOL.  i.  1) 


130  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Wijatt.    If  praise  might  tire  the  courtiers'  flowing 

tongues, 

Ere  this  they  had  been  mute :  to-day,  as  ever, 
The  sweets  of  Hybla  drop  from  every  mouth. 
As  I  came  here,  a  crowd  of  Protestants, 
All  fire-burned  artisans  and  men  of  pith, 
Their  new-made  zeal  sitting  like  riot  on  thorn, 
Brandished  the  fragments  of  some  papal  crosiers, 
And  cried  —  "  Long  live  Saint  Anne  !  " 

Queen  A.  Mockery  ! 

If  history  should  hand  my  name  to  time, 
God  grant  its  fame  may  rest  on  firmer  base 
Than  the  disjointed  sainthood  of  a  mob  ! 
I  keep  you  waiting.     Fortune  speed  your  suit. 

[Exit  WYATT.] 

(Another  throng  of  Courtiers  cross  the  stage,  bowing  profoun  //(/.) 

These  straws  of  courtiers  watch  the  royal  wind, 

And  first  predict  the  coming  hurricane ; 

Certes,  as  yet  I  see  no  adverse  signs. 

Some  state  affairs  have  galled  the  fretful  edge 

Of  hasty  Harry's  rash  but  loving  heart : 

Anon  he  will  return,  and,  cap  in  hand, 

Cry,  "  Pardon,  Anne  !  "     But  I  '11  pout  and  swell, 

Tossing  my  head,  and  tapping  thus  my  foot ; 

Then  all  my  pride,  at  one  great,  eager  gasp, 

I  '11  seem  to  swallow,  as  I  bound  to  him  ; 

And  then  I  '11  pat  his  cheeks,  and  call  him  "  Bear," 

And  chide  him  gently  for  his  angry  mood. 

But  when  his  eyes  blush  at  their  starting  tears, 

I  '11  laugh  aloud,  and  puzzle  all  his  wits. 

So  from  this  egg,  of  seeming  noxious  wrath, 

Shall  spring  a  new-born  love  of  double  power. 


ANNE    BOLKYN.  131 

To-morrow  sees  a  messenger  despatched 
To  threaten  Germany  with  fiery  war, 
If  wrong  befall  our  faithful  Lutherans  : 
Whereat  our  uncle,  the  good  Duke  of  Norfolk, 
Shall  gnaw  his  nether  lip  off  with  chagrin. 
Ho  !  cheer  thee,  Anne  !  darksome  passages 
Oft  mount  to  prospects,  but  for  them  unknown. 


132  ANNE    BOLEYN. 


ACT       II. 
SCENE   I.     J*  Room  in   Whitehall   Palace.     Enter  JANE  SEY- 


Jane  Seymour.    A  QUEEN,  a  queen  !  a  real  anointed 

queen, 

With  trains  of  maids  and  smiling  courtiers, 
Diamonds  like  stones,  and  softest  velvet  pall 
To  grace  the  shoulders  of  my  majesty ! 
All  eyes  on  me,  my  beauties  sung  in  verse ; 
Each  feature  —  ay,  the  tithe  of  any  one  — 
More  than  enough  to  swell  a  rondeau  up  ! 
My  wishes  fairies,  flying  at  a  sign 
To  bring  the  substance  of  my  latest  thought  1 
My  kin  ennobled  to  the  last  degree  ; 
My  son  a  king,  my  daughters  wed  to  kings  ; 
My  name  the  pith  of  gravest  history  ! 
This  is  too  much !  I  cannot,  if  I  would, 
Put  by  the  crown  which  fortune  offers  me. 
But,  then,  the  queen?  —  The  queen  o'erruns  with 

pride ; 

Last  Tuesday  week  she  cruelly  rated  me. 
What  mercy  showed  she  to  poor  Katharine  ? 
I  am  but  the  instrument  of  justest  Heaven 
To  make  requital  for  her  own  misdeeds. 
The  king  abhors  her,  and  inclines  to  me  — 
Lo  !  nature  points  the  path  which  I  should  take. 
Just  as  I  mount,  so  must  the  queen  descend ; 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  133 

We  hang1  in  adverse  scales.     Now  'tis  too  late ; 
My  faith  is  plighted  to  the  king,  and  I 
Will  dare  the  issue  for  the  glittering  prize  ! 

(Enter  KING  HENRY.) 

King  Henry.    All  joy  befall  you,  darling  I 

[Embraces  her."] 

Jane  S.  Welcome,  sir  ! 

King  H.    Are  you  still  constant  ? 

Jane  8.  Can  you  ask  me  that  ? 

You  have  descended  from  your  royal  state, 
And  deigned  to  honor  one  so  low  as  I ; 
Chosen  me,  unworthy,  from  the  common  throng, 
Nor  cast  your  eyes  upon  the  maiden  hands 
Of  princesses  that  wait  outstretched  for  you  : 
As  well  might  the  dull  earth  reject  the  sun, 
That  changes  its  grimed  face  to  virgin  gold, 
As  I  refuse  the  glory  of  your  love. 
Henceforth  my  person  is  a  sacred  thing, 
A  common  vessel  turned  to  holy  use  ; 
And  should  you  now  disdain  my  little  worth, 
All  your  great  kingdom  holds  no  mate  for  me. 

King  H.    Tut !    mistress,  with   your   gloomy  fan 
tasies  ; 

And  be  not  jealous  of  my  love  so  soon. 
Oiirs  is  a  mere  exchange  of  heart  for  heart ; 
Crowns  and  such  baubles  enter  not  our  trade. 
That  which  I  have,  the  sceptre  of  a  king, 
Possession  makes  nigh  worthless  in  my  eyes ; 
That  which  I  have  not,  your  own  beauteous  self, 
O'er  all  stale  toys  of  royalty  I  prize. 

Jane  S.    Then  be  content ;  my  heart  is  yours  alone, 
As  virgin  as  the  breast  wherein  it  beats. 


134  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

It  rests  with  you  to  lift  my  fortunes  up 
On  level  with  your  own. 

King  H.  By  Heaven,  I  will !  - 

But  how,  but  how  ?     Let  us  to  counsel,  love. 

[Scats  himself t  with  JANE  SEYMOUR  on  his  knee  ] 
There  's  Norfolk,  eager  at  our  first  design  ; 
But  he  is  a  Papist ;  to  restore  the  Pope 
Part  of  his  creed  ;  —  a  doubtful  counsellor. 
If  1  retrieve  the  Pope's  authority, 
Upon  the  act  my  marriage  is  annulled, 
And  I  am  free.     True,  true  ;  but  pause  we  here  : 
How  shall  we  satisfy  the  plundered  monks 
Whom  we  have  ousted  from  their  fat  domains  ? 
How  our  good  nobles  who  possess  them  now  ? 

Jane  S.    And  how  the  people  ? 

King  H.  Let  them  fight  it  out. 

They  are  half  and  half,  Papists  and  Protestants, 
And  so  divided,  easily  subdued. 
I  mainly  fear  to  reinstate  the  Pope ; 
His  holy  finger  is  in  every  dish  ; 
I  must  be  king  within  my  own  domain  ; 
Yet  if  the  thing  must  be  —  'Ods  wounds  !   my  love, 
This  matrimonial  knot  was  hard  to  tie  ; 
But  'twas  mere  pastime  to  undoing  it. 
Would  that  the  Grecian's  sword  might  cut  it — Ha  !  — 

Jane  S.    What  mean  you,  sir  ?    Why  do  you  glare 

around  ? 
And  pale  as  death ! 

King  H.  As  death  ! 

Jane  S.  Ay,  and  as  fearful. 

Rouse,  rouse,  sir!     You  are  ill  —  I  '11  call  relief. 

King  H.    Nay,  sit  you  down  again. 

Jane  S.  But  are  you  well  ? 


ANNE    BO*,EYN.  135 

King  H.    'T  was  but  a  passing  thought  that  tor 
tured  me, 

As  one  may  feel  who  murders.     Clasp  me  tight ; 
Pain  would  be  comfort  to  such  awful  visions. 

(Enter  QUEEN  ANNE,  behind.) 

Queen  Anne.    Ha  ! 

Jane  S.  0,  good  heavens  !  the  queen  ! 

Queen  A.  In  luckless  time 

For  you,  base  minion,  treble  traitoress, 
False  to  yourself,  false  to  your  state  and  me ! 
The  foulest  sin  that  woman  may  commit 
Made  doubly  hideous  by  the  circumstance  ! 
What !  in  the  palace  that  contains  your  queen, 
The  very  seat  of  England's  dignity, 
Whence  virtue,  as  the  simple  commons  deem, 
Springs  to  illumine  this  majestic  realm  I 
Have  you  no  shame  ?     Wear  you  that  brazen  front 
When  I  hold  up  a  mirror  to  your  crime  ? 
Is  not  your  Gorgon  nature  turned  to  stone, 
At  the  bare  glimpse  of  your  own  ugliness  ? 

King  H.    Peace,   sweetheart,  peace  I  all  shall   be 

well  for  you  ; 
Your  maid  is  guiltless. 

Queen  A.  Have  you  found  a  tongue  ? 

What  sorcery  bestowed  this  power  of  speech  ? 
Or  has  poor  shame,  bedazzled  at  her  glory, 
Shrunk  from  the  world  ? 

King  H.  This  foully-slandered  maid 

Is  half  distraught  at  your  mad  violence. 

Queen  A.    And  dare  you,  sir,  before  your  injured 
queen  — 


136  ANNE  -BOLEYN. 

You,  the  copartner  of  her  guilt  and  shame, 
Protect  yon  wanton*? 

King  H.  Dare  I,  dare  I,  madam  ! 

'Ods  wounds  !  who  's  king  in  England  ?     Hold  your 

tongue, 

You  rank  defier  of  your  sovereign's  power! 
Have  you  not  learned  whose  presence  you  are  in  ? 
Or  must  I  teach  you  by  some  sterner  means  ? 

Queen  A.  0  !  shameless  husband  ! 

King  H.  She  is  pure,  I  say  : 

And,  by  high  Heaven,  as  pure  shall  you  remain 
From  touch  of  mine,  till  malice  gnaw  you  up  !  — 
This  is  forever.     Come,  sweet  mistress  Jane. 

[Exit,  leading  off  JANE  SEYMOUR.] 

Queen  A.  0,  God!    0,  God!— The  king— Nay, 

Harry,  Harry, 

Come  back  ;  I  will  —  0  !  killing  agony  ! 
Is  there  no  pity  in  the  heart  of  man  ? 
Plead  for  me,  girl  —  he  loves  you  —  plead  for  me  ! 
I  am  his  wife,  your  queen,  your  loving  mistress. 
I  will  forgive  you,  I  will  cherish  you, 
I  '11  love  you  dearer  than  my  dearest  friend.  — 
Gone,  gone  forever  !     Said  he  not,  forever  ? 
Kind  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  my  feebleness  ! 
If  this  be  trial  of  my  strength,  I  yield  ; 
I  do  confess  my  utter  helplessness  ; 
I  bow  me  prostrate,  a  poor  nerveless  woman  — 
A  queen  no  more.     I  '11  trample  on  my  pride, 
And  follow  meekly  where  thy  finger  points. 
By  Heaven,  not  so  !     This  is  a  grievous  wrong, 
By  man  inflicted.     Devils  ordered  this, 
And  they  shall  pay  it !  —  Hear  me,  writhing  souls, 
That  minister  around  sin's  ebon  throne! 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  131 

If  to  these  murderers  of  my  heart's  dear  peace 

A  child  be  born,  may  she,  in  that  sweet  time 

When  infant  babble  opes  all  heaven  to  her, 

Feel  the  cold  hand  of  death  draw,  day  by  day, 

The  clinging  spirit  from  her !     May  her  child 

Live  in  the  vexings  of  a  troubled  time, 

And,  issueless,  die  young  !     May  he  —  0  God, 

I  cannot  bid  a  curse  light  on  the  head 

Of  him  my  child  calls  father  !     Bless  him,  Heaven  ! 

Give  him  the  peace  which  he  has  stolen  from  me  ! 

[Exit.] 

SCENE  II. 

A  Street  in  London.     Enter  MARK  SMEATON  and  RALPH  LONEY, 
meeting. 

Loney.  Mark  Smeaton,  if  I  breathe  ! 

Smeaton.  Who  are  you,  fellow, 

That  thus  accost  her  majesty's  chief  groom  ? 

Lon.  So  soon  forgotten !     Know  you  not  Ralph 

Loney, 

Whilom  your  school-mate  ?     Shame  upon  you,  Mark  ! 
Had  I  turned  Peter,  and  denied  you  thus, 
When  the  big  smith  made  at  you  with  his  hammer, 
You  would  riot  bear  your  silken  coat  to-day. 

Smea.  Ralph  Coney — Coney?  — 

Lon.  Loney,  Master  Mark. 

How  should  I  call  your  name,  not  knowing  you  ? 

Smea.    Think  you,  this  is  the  first,  or  hundredth 

time, 
That  knaves  have    claimed   acquaintance  with   my 


name 


We  of  the  court  are  known  to  every  one  ; 


138  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

And  I  in  chief,  as  the  queen's  favored  groom  — 
Nay,  I  may  say,  her  most  familiar  groom, 
Ranked  more  as  friend  than  courtly  servitor  — 
Am  most  conspicuous  to  the  vulgar  gaze. 
It  would  but  prove  a  new-come  clown  in  town, 
Had  you  not  known  me. 

Lon.  Here  are  tidings  gained 

To  please  his  grace  of  Suffolk.     [Aside.] 

Bless  me,  sir ! 

I  pray  forgive  my  vulgar  forwardness  ; 
Indeed  I  knew  not  of  your  dignity. 
Your  worship  would  not  harm  a  thoughtless  man. 
Nay,  frown  not,  good  Sir  Mark.  —  Do  I  misjudge, 
In  calling  you  Sir  Mark  ? 

Smea.  On  the  way  thither  ; 

To-morrow,  or  next  day,  that  style  may  suit ; 
Perchance,  a  higher  one.     Resume  your  beaver. 
Let  me  see  —  Loney  —  Ralph  ?  —  Upon  my  life, 
When  I  reflect,  I  have  a  faint  idea 
That  once  I  knew  you. 

Lon.  I  will  freshen  you. 

Do  you  remember,  on  an  Easter  day, 
How  the  fierce  urchins,  half  insane  for  meat, 
And  rancorous  with  the  bile  of  fishy  Lent, 
Into  a  green  and  filthy  pool  bobbed  you, 
Merely  because  they  could  ?     How  I  alone, 
In  pity  of  your  plight  —  your  slimy  plight  - 
Your  most  nose-wrenching  plight  — 

Smea.  Good  Loney,  cease  ! 

The  zenith-topping  sun  forgets  the  clouds 
Which,  in  the  dirty  dawn,  he  struggled  through ! 

Lon.  Now,  what  bystander  that  had  seen  you  rise 
From  that  green  pond,  fresh  with  your  miry  coat, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  139 

Had  ever  prophesied  these  gilded  clothes  ? 
And  who  that  saw  me,  with  my  broken  staff, 
Thrash  to  their  doors  your  routed  enemies, 
Could  have  foretold  my  present  mean  estate  ? 
I  should  be  captain  of  a  great  armada  ; 
You  should  be  dragging  horse-ponds. 

Smea.  Prithee,  cease  ! 

These  boyish  pranks  disgust  my  nicer  sense. 

Lon.  I  would  not  vex  you  ;  but  it  comforts  me, 
And  reconciles  me  to  my  lot  on  earth, 
To  summon  back  my  childhood.     As  I  then 
Had  my  full  hours  of  triumph  and  renown, 
So  have  you  now  ;  thus  fate  is  justified. 

Smea.  You  seem  to  be  an  honest  fellow,  Ralph  ; 
Nor  care  I  if  from  my  abounding  stose, 
Ever  replenished  by  my  gracious  mistress, 
I  give  a  parcel.     [Gives  a  purse.] 

Lon.  Luck  be  with  you,  sir  ! 

Smea.  When  that  is  emptied,  I  '11  replenish  it, 
If  you  will  drink  my  royal  lady's  health. 

Lon.  You  stand  high  in  her  favor. 

Smea.  Did  you  know 

The  height  I  stand,  it  would  amaze  your  ears. 
Adieu  !  we  '11  meet  again.  [Exit.] 

Lon.  Farewell,  poor  fool ! 

We  '11  meet  too  soon  for  you.    Hell  snatch  the  purse  ! 

[Throws  it  from  him.] 

It  burns  like  heated  brass.     Now  to  the  duke. 
Mark  Smeaton's  vanity,  a  seeming  trifle, 
May  in  his  grace's  hands  work  great  results  ; 
Ay,  even  the  unqueening  of  a  queen. 
Alas  !  alas  !  poor  Mark,  that  thy  fine  feathers 
Should  draw  the  fowler's  closely-prying  eye  ! 


140  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

So  must  it  be  ;  why  should  I  hesitate  ? 

Curse  on  his  bounty  I     While  we  are  beasts  of  prey, 

The  little  game  must  ever  feed  the  great.          [Exit.] 


SCENE   III. 

A  Room  in  the  Palace  of  the  Duke  of  SUFFOLK.     Enter  Duke  of 
NORFOLK,  Duke  of  SUFFOLK,  and  Marquis  of  EXETER. 

Suffolk.  Where  '&  Aruridel,  Lord  Exeter  ? 

Exeter.  Poor  man  ! 

His  over  boldness  in  once  joining  us 
Has  scared  him  from  a  second  wish  of  it : 
One  valiant  thought  has  terrified  the  rest. 
He  bade  me  mention  that  some  strict  affairs 
Drew  him  away.     When  we  have  won  the  game, 
1  pledge  my  faith,  we  '11  have  him  bickering  hot, 
And  bold  as  Mars  to  share  the  dangerous  spoils. 

Norfolk.    We    can  _well    spare    him.      Since    his 

majesty 

Has  shown  such  favor  to  our  enterprise, 
They  who  at  first  turned  from  us,  virtue-sick, 
Deem  it  a  blessed  thing  to  be  enrolled. 

(Enter  Earl  O/ARUXDEL.) 

Welcome,  my  lord ! 

Arundel  A  dear  salute  to  me. 

I  rode  four  horses  dead,  to  keep  my  faith, 
And  only  reached  you  as  the  fifth  fell  lame. 
Good  Lord !  good  Lord !  they  say  his  majesty  — 
I  had  this  from  a  sure  but  private  source  — 
Has  gained  intelligence  of  our  design, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  141 

And  smiles  at  it.     Ugh  !  sirs,  I  'm  out  of  breath  : 
When  I  have  blown  a  while,  I  '11  tell  you  more. 

Suf.  Nay,  spare  your  wind. — 

Nor.  Poh  !  poh  !  don't  anger  him. 

Impart  to  SUFFOLK.  ] 

Arun.  Ha  !  you  know  all  ? 

Nor.  Yes,  every  tittle  of  it. 

Arun.  Then,  sirs,  to  counsel. 

Ex.  Now  he  is  head  assassin,     [Aside.] 

Nor.  His  majesty  is  much  perplexed  with  doubts  ; 
Nor  knows  he,  better  than  ourselves,  a  plan 
To  rid  the  state  of  his  ambitious  queen. 
She  has  committed  no  so  gross  excess 
As  may  subject  her  to  the  common  law : 
A  faithful  wife,  untainted  in  her  fame  — 

Ex.  And  so  was  Katharine. 

Suf.  Come,  come,  be  blunt : 

We  must  destroy  her,  by  fair  means  or  foul. 

(Enter  a  SERVANT.) 

Servant.    Your    grace's    servant,    Master   Loney, 
waits. 

Suf.  Let  him  wait,  fellow  —  I  am  much  engaged. 

Ser.  I  told  him  so.     He  said  his  business  was 
About  the  matter  you  have  now  in  hand. 

Suf.  Ha  !  said  he  so  ?  Admit  him  then.  (Exit  SERVANT.) 

My  lords, 

Be  not  provoked  by  his  familiar  bearing. 
He  is  my  jackal,  a  moat  useful  one, 
But  one  who  hates  his  trade. 

(Enter  RALPH  LONEY.) 

Loney.  My  speech  is  short. 

I  met  a  youthful  schoolfellow  of  mine, 


142  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

A  rare  musician,  now  her  highness'  groom  : 

The  man  's  a  fool,  and  boasted  of  the  love 

His  mistress  bore  him.     He  would  go  still  furtner. 

To  gratify  his  itching  vanity, 

And  criminate  the  queen. 

Suf.  Go  make  him  drunk  ; 

Take  witnesses,  fit  men,  and  pump  him  dry. 

Lon.  I  will  obey,  sir.  —  'T  is  but  one  man  more. 

[Exit.} 

Suf.  You  '11  scarce  believe,  at  times  that  fellow 

laughs  ; 

But  never  when  about  my  secret  work  ; 
Then  he  is  ever  sullen. 

Ai^un.  A  strange  knave. 

Suf.  But  faithful. 

Ex.  Something  grave  may  come  of  this. 

Suf.  Ay,  something  which,  by  us  interpreted, 
May  compromise  the  virtue  of  the  queen. 

Nor.  Perhaps.     0  find  me  but  some  little  charge, 
Less  weighty  than  the  air-drawn  gossamer  — 
Some  dim  tradition,  gathered  in  a  dream 
Seen  by  the  blearing  vision  of  a  drunkard  — 
Some  hearsay  mumbled  by  a  maniac's  lips, 
With  fever  scorched  upon  his  dying  bed  — 
Some  words  the  roaring  tongues  of  angry  blasts, 
Or  zephyrs,  lisping  through  the  sluggish  trees, 
Hummed  in  the  ears  of  musing  fantasy  — 
Find  one  of  these,  to  frame  a  charge  upon, 
And  I  will  warrant  trial  expedite, 
And  sure  conviction,  though  an  angel  plead. 

Suf.  I  '11  answer,  Loney's  craft  unearths  a  charge 
As  horrible  as  death. 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  143 

Ex.  What  mean  you,  sirs, 

To  bring  a  deadly  fault  against  the  guiltless  ? 

Arun.  Ay,  prove  it  too. 

Ex.  This  is  flat  villany  ! 

;T  is  now  too  late  to  shape  my  course  anew  ; 
And  England's  weal  outweighs  a  woman's  life. 

[Aside.'} 

Nor.  Should  this  affair  fulfil  its  promises, 
We  '11  meet  anon. 

Arun.  If  't  would  assist  you,  sirs, 

Pray  use  my  house. 

Ex.  Yon  fellow  glows  with  zeal  ; 

He  'd  stab  she-Caesar  in  the  capitol.  [Aside.'] 

[Exeunt  severally.] 


SCENE  IV. 

A  By-street  in  London.     Knots  of  vagabonds  occasionally  cross 
the  scene.     Enter  Viscount  ROCHFORD  and  THOMAS  WYATT. 

liochford.  Here  is,  indeed,  a  walk  to  take  a  friend, 
Good  master  Poet !     Pray  what  place  is  this  ? 
Are  we  in  London  or  in  Tartarus  ? 
For,  by  my  life,  the  visions  we  have  passed 
Seemed  fit  induction  to  the  place  of  shades. 

Wyatt.  No,  Heaven  be  praised,  we  are  in  "  Safety." 

sir  ; 

So  call  the  thieves  this  well  of  girding  walls. 
Here  is  a  place  as  innocent  of  rule 
As  the  dun  sands  of  savage  Araby. 
Here  pilferers  divide  their  filched  rags, 
Ani  bolder  robbers  share  their  golden  spoils  ; 
Here  crime  is  native,  natural,  unabashed, 


144  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Walking  abroad  in  easy  confidence  ; 

Here  treason  stalks,  the  dreaded  ghost  of  courts, 

Whetting  his  knife,  and  mixing  deadly  bowls. 

From  yonder  porch,  I  heard  a  hoarse-voiced  Jew 

Harangue  a  crowd  of  frowning  murderers, 

Cursing  the  king,  the  state,  the  holy  church, 

Until  he  choked  with  mere  malignity. 

On  yonder  steps,  I  saw  a  quiet  wretch 

Coolly  thrust  in  an  ell  or  so  of  steel 

Between  his  brother's  ribs.  —  There  they  both  walk, 

The  Jew  and  murderer.     No  law  is  here, 

Save  what  the  dwellers  make,  and  that  is  shifting. 

I  oft  have  thought  the  watchful  eye  of  God 

Upon  this  place  ne'er  rested  ;  or  that  hell 

Had  raised  so  black  a  smoke  of  densest  sin, 

That  the  All-Beautiful,  appalled,  shrank  back 

From  its  fierce  ugliness.     I  tell  you,  friend, 

When  the  great  treason,  which  shall  surely  come 

To  burst  in  shards  law-bound  society, 

Gives  the  first  shudder,  ere  it  grinds  to  dust 

Thrones,    ranks,    and   fortunes,    and   most-  cunning 

laws  — 

When  the  great  temple  of  our  social  state 
Staggers,  and  throbs,  and  totters  back  to  chaos  — 
Let  men  look  here,  here  in  this  fiery  mass 
Of  aged  crime  and  primal  ignorance, 
For  the  hot  heart  of  all  the  mystery  !  — 
Here,  on  this  howling  sea,  let  fall  the  scourge, 
Or  pour  the  oil  of  mercy  I 

JRoch.  Pour  the  oil, — 

In  God's  name,  pour  the  blessed  oil !     The  scourge, 
Bloody  and  fierce,  has  fallen  for  ages  past 
Upon  the  fore  ward  crests  within  its  reach ; 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  145 

Yet  made  no  more  impression  on  the  mass 
Than  Persia's  whips  upon  the  Hellespont. 

Wyatt.    7T  was  not  to  harrow  up  your  heart  with 

crime  — 

Though,  haply,  such  amazement  is  not  lost  — 
I  brought  you  hither.     'T  was  to  stand  beyond 
The  utmost  pale  and  influence  of  the  Court, 
Where  men  interpret  a  malignant  mind 
From  every  look  the  changing  features  wear  ; 
Find  danger  in  the  meeting  of  two  friends  ; 
Rank  treason  in  devices  of  our  arms  ; 
Open  rebellion  to  their  gracious  king, 
Should  we  but  furbish  our  time-rusted  blades. 
Now,  Rochford,  listen. 

Eoch.  Heavens  !  you  frighten  me. 

Wyatt.    No,  I  but  caution  you.     My  tale,  though 

sad, 
May  rest  on  fears  as  thin  as  summer  clouds. 

Eoch.    Why,  that  is  cheering. 

Wyatt.  7T  is  not  for  yourself, 

But  for  her  sacred  majesty,  the  queen, 
I  have  these  vague  misgivings. 

Roch.  What,  the  queen  ! 

Pshaw  !  Wyatt,  was  there  ever  woman  blessed 
As  she  is  ?     Courted  and  bepraised  by  all, 
Sharing  no  empty  title  in  the  crown, 
No  mere  producer  of  a  royal  brood  ; 
But  by  the  force  of  her  own  intellect, 
To  all  effects,  an  equal  with  the  king. 
Why,  man,  just  now  she  stands  at  zenith  height, 
Flooding  our  land  with  peerless  majesty, 
The  gaze  and  wonder  of  all  Christendom. 
The  great  reformer,  Anne,  preordained 

VOL.  i.  10 


146  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

By  Heaven  to  work  its  solemn  purposes  !  — 

Poh  !  this  is  idle  ;  we  are  wasting  time  ; 

Your  fears,  indeed,  were  thin  as  summer  clouds. 

Wyatt.    Ah !    know  you   not,  when    the   rejoicing 

sun 

Has  reached  its  mid-day  station  in  the  sky, 
At  that  same  time  its  mournful  fall  begins  ? 

lloch.    Sir  Poet,  I  confess  me  figure-beaten  : 
Now  croak  away. 

Wyatt.  What  I  shall  tell, 

My  sister  Mary  told  to  me  alone. 
She  says,  of  late  her  majesty  rema'ins, 
Hour  after  hour,  with  dull  and  vacant  eyes, 
Picking  the  fringe  around  her  garment's  hem. 
Anon,  big  tears,  like  slow-paced  mourners,  come 
Forth  from  the  darkened  mansion  of  her  grief, 
As  if  they  followed  at  hope's  funeral. 
If  they  arouse  her  from  this  lethargy, 
She  looks  bewildered,  asks  the  time  of  day, 
Appears  surprised  at  lateness  of  the  hour, 
Gives  more  commands  than  she  has  several  hairs  ; 
Talking,  meanwhile,  at  such  a  rattling  pace, 
In  bitter  sneers  and  heartless  gayety, 
That  not  an  ear  can  gather  her  discourse ; 
And  then  again,  all  suddenly,  she  falls 
Into  her  former  state  of  revery. 

Roch.    Good  sir,  you  startle  me.     You  're  sure  ot 

this  ? 

For  't  is  the  dreamy  torpor  of  the  brain 
That  oft  foreshadows  madness. 

Wyatt.  Very  sure  : 

But  'tis  not  madness.     Listen,  till  the  end. 
One  day  my  sister  entered  suddenly, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  147 

But  unperceived,  the  chamber  of  her  highness. 
Scarce  had  she  crossed  the  threshold  ere  she  saw, 
Kolled  in  a  heap  and  crammed  into  a  corner, 
The  person  of  the  queen.     She  stood  amazed, 
Not  daring  to  approach  ;  and  saw  such  grief, 
So  absolute,  so  past  all  earthly  bounds, 
So  fiercely  raging  to  pain's  topmost  pitch, 
That  she  shrank  quivering  to  the  ante-room. 
But  there  her  ears  made  pictures  to  her  eyes : 
Anon,  she  heard  her  clawing  at  the  floor, 
Sobbing  and  wailing  like  a  soul  possessed  : 
Then  into  one  long,  piercing,  hellish  scream 
Of  hideous  laughter  broke  her  aching  soul. 
At  that  my  sister  fled,  with  echoing  laugh, 
And  knew  no  more  till  from  a  lengthened  swoon 
Her  maids  awoke  her. 

Roch.  This  is  past  belief. 

Without  a  doubt,  the  queen  or  she  is  mad. 

Wyatt.    My  sister  says,  the  king  and  queen  ne'er 

meet ; 

That  notes  unnumbered  of  her  majesty's 
He  has  returned  unopened.     More,  'tis  noised, 
The  king  and  Seymour's  daughter  oft  of  late 
Have  been  observed  together  ;  that  the  foes, 
Once  secret,  but  now  open,  of  the  queen, 
Stand  in  high  favor  with  his  majesty, 
And  share  his  private  counsels. 

Roch.  Gracious  Heaven  ! 

If  this  be  certain,  there  is  more  in  it 
Than  I  dare  utter.     Have  I  been  bewitched, 
That  I  remained  o'er-confident  so  long  ? 
Now  you  have  mentioned  it,  a  thousand  things 
Which  I  have  seen,  but  shuffled  by  unweighed, 


148  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Rise  to  confirm  the  gloomiest  belief. 
My  cold  receptions,  Suffolk's  insolence, 
Arundel's  vaporings,  Norfolk's  tart  replies, 
My  sudden  dearth  of  courtly  sycophants, 
And  Wyatt's  warming  friendship.     Noble  man, 
Through  all  my  life  I  never  aided  you  — 

Wyatt.  Because  I  never  asked  it.    Pshaw !  George 

Boleyn, 

Were  we  not  playfellows  'neath  Blickling's  oaks, 
Where  first  my  muse  essayed  her  feeble  lisp  ? 
Did  you  not  praise  and  wonder  at  my  rhymes, 
And  cheer  my  heart  with  kindred  sympathy  ? 
Have  we  not  written  sonnets  and  rondeaux, 
In  kindly  rivalry,  to  Anne's  eyes  ? 
Did  you  not  always  swear  my  songs  the  best, 
Ere  half  were  read,  and  force  fair  Anne's  hand 
To  place  the  laurel  on  my  victor  brow  ? 
Can  I  forget  you  ?     Can  I  cease  to  see, 
In  England's  queen,  our  little  playfellow  ? 
Forgive  me,  Rochford  ;  this  is  not  a  time 
To  babble  of  our  childhood.     You  are  hemmed 
With  scores  of  bold  and  ruthless  enemies  ; 
And,  God  forgive  him  !  the  worst  foe  of  all 
Is  the  first  man  in  England's  wide  domain  ! 

Roch.    What  shall  be  done  ? 

Wyatt.  Fly  to  her  majesty  ; 

Drain  to  the  dregs  her  secret  cause  of  grief; 
Learn  all  her  fears,  the  blackest  of  her  fears, 
Nor  care  to  know  her  dimmest  gleam  of  hope. 
Armed  for  the  worst,  we  gain  a  double  strength  — 
The  power  to  conquer  at  the  last  extreme, 
And  chance  that  such  extreme  may  ne'er  arrive. 
I  will  not  slumber.     What  the  brain  of  man 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  149 

Can  summon  from  its  viewless  armory, 
Shall  be  arrayed  to  battle  for  her  right. 
1 711  see  you  safe  beyond  this  wretched  place, 
And  then  we  part,  but  not  without  a  hope. 

[Exeunt.] 


150  ANNE    BOLEYN. 


ACT      III. 

SCENE  I.  A  Tavern.  MARK  SMEATON,  drunk,  with  RALPH 
LONEY  and  three  INFORMERS  seated  at  a  table  spread  with 
wine,  etc. 

Smeaton.    Now,  that 's  a  song,  and  that 's  what  I 

call  singing. 

Roar  it  again,  brave  master  bull-throat,  roar ! 
First  Informer.     [Sings.] 

Old  sack,  old  sack, 

Thou  hast  a  happy  knack, 

When  fortune  deals  a  sorry  thwack, 

When  friends  may  flout  and  credit  crack, 

Old  sack,  old  sack. 

Old  sack,  old  sack, 
We  '11  bide  the  world's  attack, 
Though  rosy  Cupid  turn  his  back, 
We  ask  but  this,  that  thou  'It  not  lack, 

Old  sack,  old  sack. 

Smea.  Is  that  the  end  of  your  rare  melody  ? 

Loney,  my  boy  —  Loney,  you  are  dull  as  mud  — 
Were  you  not  ravished  by  yon  fellow's  song  ? 
That  is  the  neat's-tongue  of  true  poesy : 
Nature  applauds  it  in  the  thirst  it  brings. 
The  song  is  a  miracle  ;  that  one  being  full 
Yet  asks  for  more  upon  it.     Wine,  there,  wine  ! 

[They  drink.] 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  151 

What  are  such  poets  as  my  lord  of  Surrey, 
Or  whining  Wyatt  ?  —  Some  one  curse  Tom  Wyatt ! 
You  singer  with  the  stormy  lungs,  pray  curse 
This  Thomas  Wyatt !     Have  I  ne'er  a  friend 
Whose  oaths  are  potent  ?   Curse  him  black  and  blue, 
My  rival  Wyatt ! 

Lon.  Rival,  boy  !  and  how  ? 

Smea.    Who   is  my  love  ?     Answer   me,   leather- 
lungs. 

First  I.    Nay,  sir,  I  know  not. 

Smea.  Then  you  are  an  ass, 

Not  knowing,  and  a  wizard,  knowing  her. 

Lon.    We  cannot  miss  by  drinking  her  a  round. 
Give  us  the  toast. 

Smea.  Here  's  to  our  noble  queen  !     [Drink*.] 

Lon.-  That 's  good  and  loyal,  and  we  '11  quaff  it  off; 
But  not  what  we  intended.     We  would  drink 
To  your  sweet  darling,  to  your  pretty  May, 
Your  wanton  plaything.     Come,  boy,  never  halt ! 

Smea.    Loney,  observe  me  —  every  piece  of  me  — 
Edgewise,  before,  behind.     Now  tell  me,  sir, 
What  woman  in  this  realm  is  worthy  of  me  ? 

Lon.    Some  great  one,  without  doubt. 

Smea.  I  say,  the  queen. 

Lon.    Now  mark  him,  sirs.      [Apart  to  the  INFORMERS.] 

Informers.  Ho  !  ho  !  the  man  is  drunk  ! 

Smea.    What  do  you  take  me  for,  you  foul-mouthed 

knaves, 

A  man  of  worship,  or  a  common  liar  ? 
Where  have  you  lived,  you  scum  of  filthy  earth, 
Not  to  know  me  ? 

Lon.  Pardon  the  simple  men  ; 

Indeed  they  knew  not  of  your  dignity. 


152  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

This  is  her  majesty's  chief  groom  of  state  — 
The  very  front  door  to  her  royal  ear  ; 
You  must  needs  pass  him  ere  you  reach  the  queen  — 
Pray  you,  respect  him. 

First  I.  0,  that  alters  it ; 

A  royal  servant. 

Smea.  Are  the  villains  blind  ? 

Well,  well,  I  have  comfort. 

Lon.  What  may  comfort  you  ? 

Smea.    That  some  fair  day  a  goodly  son  of  mine 
May  mount  the  throne,  and  chop  oft'  all  their  heads. 

Lon.    Mark  that  again.      [Apart  to  the  INFORMERS.] 

Second  Informer.        There  is  not  a  word  escapes  : 
I  have  engrossed  it  in  my  table-book. 

Smea.    Come,    Loney,    come ;    we  '11   leave   these 
stupid  knaves. 

Second  I.    Whither  away,  sir  ? 

Smea.  To  the  queen,  good  dolt!     [Going.] 

Lon.   Forget  not,  masters,  "To  the  queen,"   he 

said  ; 
And  at  this  hour.     So,  boy,  away,  away ! 

[Exit  with  SMEATON.] 

Second  I.    There  is  hanging  in  this. 

Third  Informer.  Curse  him  !  what  care  I  ? 

I  nigh  had  struck  the  braggart  down  myself, 
For  slandering  thus  her  gracious  majesty. 
The  base,  ungrateful  cur !     1 11  see  him  hang. 

[Exeunt.] 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  153 


SCENE   II. 

The  Queen's  Apartments  in  Whitehall  Palace.      Enter  QUEEN 

ANNE. 

Queen  Anne.    So  this  is  day,  a  broad,  sun-staring 

day  — 

And  what  had  it  been  night  ?  the  same,  the  same. 
All  time  to  me  is  one  confused  mass, 
Drowned  in  a  flood  of  bitter  misery. 
There  is  no  time  to  one  without  a  hope  : 
Hopes  are  the  figures  on  life's  changing  dial, 
That  first  betray  to  us  the  passing  hours, 
Ere  the  great  bell  may  summon  us  away. 
All  blank  and  meaningless  is  life  to  me : 
I  have  no  future.     One  eternal  present, 
Rayless  as  Lapland  winter,  wraps  my  soul ; 
One  ceaseless  wrong,  affording  but  one  sense 
Of  crudest  agony,  makes  up  my  life, 
Stretching  from  day  to  day  its  sole  event. 
What  if  the  sun  arise  ?  what  if  the  lark 
Put  on  the  glory  of  his  morning  song  ? 
What  if  the  flowers  perk  up  their  loaded  heads, 
And  swing  their  incense  down  the  thirsting  gale  ? 
What  if  .the  frame  of  the  whole  universe 
Warm  in  the  glow,  and  join  the  matin  hymn  ? 
While  I  remain  in  this  dull  lethargy, 
There  is  no  morn  to  me.     Eternal  One, 
Who  sent'st  that  joyous  thing,  the  rising  sun, 
As  if  in  mockery  of  my  sullen  woe, 
To  show  how  cheerless  is  my  nighted  soul  — 
0,  end  this  mere  existence  !     Rouse  to  life 
The  fire  of  my  consuming  energies  ! 


154  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

0,  give  me  scope,  and  fate-subduing  power  — 
Ay,  though  a  pang  be  coupled  with  each  act  — 
Lest,  in  this  trance,  the  erring  scythe  of  death 
Pass  o'er  my  frame,  as  o'er  the  trampled  grain, 
And  nature  be  defeated  !     Gracious  God, 
Are  we  mere  puppets  of  a  rigid  fate  ? 
Is  all  this  labyrinth  of  cunning  thought 
Bestowed  to  snare  us  ?     Must  our  exit  be 
Through  that  one  door  which  destiny  holds  wide  ? 
To  me  alone,  of  all  the  human  race, 
Has  the  dread  secret  clearly  been  revealed  ? 
It  seems  so  ;  for  where'er  I  bend  my  eyes 
Some  ugly  phantom  bars  the  hopeless  way, 
And  bids  me  wait  the  will  of  circumstance. 
This  shall  not  be  !     Arise,  my  drowsing  soul ! 
Gird  on  thy  blazing  arms  of  intellect ! 
One  struggle  more  to  master  coming  time  ; 
And  if  thy  earthly  walls  then  fall  consumed, 
We'll  scale  those  heights  where  conquering  time 
is  not ! 

(E liter  MARY  WYATT.) 

Mary  Wyatt.  A  fair  good-morning  to  your  majesty ! 

Queen  A.    Welcome,  sweet  mistress  Mary  ! 

Mary  W.  Joyful  sight ! 

There  is  a  flush  of  triumph  on  your  brow, 
Such  as  it  wore  on  Coronation-Day, 
Or  when  the  spleenful  butcher  met  his  fall. 

Queen  A.    Speak  not  of  Wolsey. 

Mary  W.    Have  I  ruffled  you  ? 

Queen  A.    0  no,  0  no  !  to-day  my  heart  is  light. 
I  feel  as  if  another  goodly  crown 
Hung  o'er  my  head. 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  155 

Mary  W.  Your  brother,  Rochford,  waits. 

Since  break  of  day  he  has  been  biding  here. 

Queen  A,    Ha  !  what  has  happened  ? 

Mary  W.  Nothing  that  I  know. 

Queen  A.   Well,  well,  admit  him.    (Exit  MARY  WYATT.) 

Rochford,  at  this  hour  !  — 
A  man  of  ease  ;  and  waited  here  since  dawn  ! 
My  heart  is  failing.  —  Nonsense  !  what  can  come, 
Worse  than  the  vision  of  that  weak-brained  girl 
Locked  in  the  circle  of  my  husband's  arms  ? 

(Enter  Viscount  ROCHFORD.) 

Good-morrow,  Rochford  !     You  are  stirring  soon. 

Rochford.    One  stirs  betimes  who  keeps  a  sleepless 
night. 

Queen  A.   Have  you  been  ill  ? 

Roch.  Indeed  I  cannot  tell. 

Perchance  a  fever  brought  my  waking  dreams. 

Queen  A.    What  dreams  ? 

Roch.  I  lay  half  slumbering,  half  awake, 

And  ever,  as  my  senses  leaned  to  sleep, 
The  same  wild  vision  roused  me  from  my  rest. 

Queen  A.    So  you  came  here,  before  the  break  of 

day, 

To  tell  your  dreams  ?     I  am  no  soothsayer. 
Pshaw  !  Rochford,  this  is  trifling.  You  have  griefs  — 
Big,  weighty  griefs  ;  I  see  them  on  your  brow. 

Rocli.    First  hear  my  dream :    I  swear,  no  common 

one, 
For  you  were  mingled  in  it. 

Queen  A.  Well,  say  on. 

Roch.    I  thought  that  you  and  I,  for  years  and 

years, 
Had  climbed  the  rundles  of  a  slippery  ladder. 


156  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

I  knew  not  why  we  clambered  ;  though  above 

A  blazing  halo,  like  a  sunset  sky, 

Shone  glorious,  and  towards  it  we  bent  our  steps, 

Urged  by  resistless  impulse.     You  were  first ; 

And  when  I  halted,  by  the  labor  tired, 

Or  dizzy  at  the  awful  depth  beneath, 

You  cheered  me  on,  and  with  your  nimble  feet 

Spurned  the  frail  rounds,  till  sundered  'neath  your 

tread 

They  fell  around  me.     Woful,  woful  sight ! 
Each  stick  in  falling  to  a  ghastly  head 
Was  metamorphosed.    Here,  Queen  Katharine's  fell ; 
There    Wolsey's,    More's,    and    Fisher's,    spouting 

blood ; 

And  many  a  one  whose  face  I  could  not  catch. 
These,  as  they  passed  me,  whispered  in  my  ears 
A   horrid    curse,    and    grinned,    and   winked    their 

eyes.  — 
Queen  A.    Good  heaven,  how  awful !     Was  there 

more  of  this  ? 

Roch.    Ay,  far  more  dreadful  fancies. 
Queen  A.  Could  there  be  ? 

Roch.    Already  through  the  radiant  clouds  above 
Your  form  was  piercing,  when  our  frail  support 
Shook  till  I  sickened  ;  and  aloft  I  saw 
A  dreadful  shape,  in  features  like  the  king, 
Tugging  and  straining  with  his  threatening  hand 
To  hurl  our  ladder  to  the  depths  below. 
I  saw  you  clutching  at  the  dazzling  clouds, 
That,  unsubstantial,  melted  in  your  grasp  ; 
I  heard  you  cry  to  the  unpitying  fiend 
Who  held  our  lives  in  his  relentless  hands  ; 
I  saw  you  turn  on  me  one  fearful  look, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  157 

In  whose  dread  meaning1  desolate  despair 
Had  crowded  all  pale  shapes  of  agony, 
Ere,  with  spasmodic  catching  at  my  breath, 
I  shot  down  headlong.  —  With  the  fall,  I  woke. 

Queen  A.  A  fearful  dream. 

Boch.  A  most  connected  one. 

The  thing  seems  now  an  uttered  prophecy, 
Whose  power  shall  bend  the  neck  of  stubborn  time 
To  do  its  bidding. 

Queen  A.  Cheer  up,  Rochford,  cheer ! 

Some  one  has  told  you  that  his  majesty 
Looks  coldly  on  me.     So  has  he  before, 
When  I  have  crossed  him  in  his  fiery  moods. 
To-day,  I  mean  to  win  him  back  again. 
I  must  confess  I  have  been  negligent, 
Not  to  have  closed  our  matrimonial  flaw. 

Boch.  Sister,  this  levity  is  forced.     I  know 
That  your  proud  soul  has  suffered  keen  chagrin  ; 
Nor  in  hope's  sunshine  stand  you  more  than  I. 
Jane  Seymour  — 

Queen  A.    Nonsense,  man,  to  place  my  worth 
Against  the  nothing  of  so  weak  a  girl  I 
The  king's  time  lags  ;  his  ever-roving  eye, 
Perchance  his  appetite,  was  caught  by  her  : 
The  eye  soon  tires,  the  heart  is  never  full ; 
The  first  is  hers,  the  nobler  prize  is  mine. 
Hope  for  the  best.     If  I  return  to-day 
A  conquered  soldier,  from  this  war  of  hearts, 
I  '11  give  you  leave  to  ease  your  sorry  eyes 
O'er  my  afflictions. 

Boch.  Joy  be  with  you,  sister  I 

Your  merry  mood  has  stolen  my  fear  away.     [Going.] 
Yet  what  I  have  heard  — 


158  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Queen  A.  Nay,  what  anon  you  '11  hear  ! 

[Exit  KOCUVORD.] 

0,  misery !  to  play  this  queenly  part 
Even  to  my  brother !     To  be  so  supreme 
That  the  sweet  flood  of  human  sympathy, 
In  which  the  beggar's  ragged  form  may  lave, 
Can  never  touch  me  !     This  is  royalty, 
To  feel  for  all  that  have  no  sense  for  me  : 
To  have  no  kindred,  no  companionship  — 
The  lonely  phoenix  on  her  spicy  fire. 
Alone,  alone  !     Kind  heaven,  the  king  remains  — 
My  rightful  mate,  sole  partner  of  my  lot  - 
And  I  will  win  him,  though  conspiring  earth 
Turn  all  its  dust  to  Seymours,  and  the  laud 
Sprout  with  such  weedy  beauties  asthis  girl !  [Exit.] 


SCENE  III. 

Another  Room  in  the  Palace.     Enter  KING  HENRY  and  the  Duke 
of  NORFOLK. 

Norfolk.    Admit  the  boastings  of  this  silly  knave 
Are  merely  grounded  on  his  vanity : 
Yet  these  same  boasts,  converted  to  a  charge, 
Would  wear  another  aspect. 

King  Henry.  Very  true  ; 

But  't  is  too  horrible.     Disclose  a  charge 
Less  dyed  in  blackness,  bearing  yet  a  color 
Sufficient  for  divorce,  but  not  for  death. 
I  do  believe  her  a  most  faithful  wife, 
Loving  and  true  ;  though  now  her  tenderness, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  159 

Like  healthy  food  to  a  distempered  mouth, 
Disgusts  the  thing  't  would  nourish. 

Nor.  I  am  dumb. 

I  know  no  charge  but  what  involves  a  crime 
As  great  as  treason.     For  the  lighter  fault, 
Of  secret  correspondence  with  King  Francis, 
We  have  no  witness,  and  but  scanty  grounds 
To  base  our  own  suspicions  on. 

King  H.  ?0ds  wounds  ! 

Would  I  could  rack  the  French  ambassador ! 
Is  there  no  other  way  ? 

Nor.  None,  that  I  know. 

King  H.    Then,  in  the  name  of  all  the  lying  fiends, 
Clear  out  this  woman  by  what  means  you  can  ! 
But  mind  you,  sir,  let  there  be  proof  enough 
To  force  conviction  to  the  very  core 
Of  my  own  conscience. 

Nor.  Ah  !  that  tender  conscience  !   [Aside.] 

Doubt  not,  my  liege  ;  the  proof  shall  be  direct. 
Suffolk  has  sent  a  follower  of  his, 
With  three  grave  witnesses,  most  truthful  men, 
To  bring  Mark  Smeaton  to  that  mellow  state 
In  which  the  tongue  o'erleaps  the  sober  will, 
And  blusters  out  its  secrets.     Truth  's  a  fool, 
And  drunkenness  an  artificial  folly. 

King  H.    Now,  by  my  soul,  perchance  the  charge 
is  true  ! 

Nor.     Doubtless,    my   liege.     Nor   is   the   groom 

alone 

The  only  evidence  may  be  produced. 
I  have  brought  one,  a  deeply-injured  wife, 
The  good  Viscountess  Rochford  ;  she  awaits 
Your  royal  pleasure  in  the  ante-room. 


160  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

King  H.    "  The  good  Viscountess  Rochford  !  " 
Nor.  She  can  tell 

Some  wondrous  matters  to  your  majesty. 

King  H.  Go  bring  her  up.     (Exit  NORFOLK.)     "  The 

good  Viscountess  Rochford  !  " 
If  Hell  were  swept,  to  find  its  vilest  soul, 
That  soul  would  blush  at  sight  of  this  good  lady. 

(Re" nter  NORFOLK  with  Viscountess  ROCHFOBD.) 

Nor.    I  pray  your  majesty,  be  gentle  with  her. 

[jipart  to  KING  HENRf .] 

King  H.    Welcome,  my  lady  ! 

Lady  Rochford.        Heaven  protect  your  highness  ! 

King  H.    His  grace  of  Norfolk  says  your  ladyship 
Can  tell  some  wondrous  matters  of  the  queen. 

Lady  R.    Not  I,  my  liege. 

King  H.    'Fore  heaven  !  what  brought  you,  then  ? 

Nor.    Nay,  draw  her  gently  on.     She  must  be  led, 
my  liege.  [Apart  to  KING  HENRY.] 

King  H.    Who  are  familiar  with  her  majesty  ? 

Lady  R.    Why,  Mary  Wyatt,  and  sweet  mistress 
Seymour  — 

King  H.    Zounds,  woman  !  —  and  what  men  ? 

Lady  R.  I  know  not  all. 

Besides  the  Council,  and  the  Churchmen  — 

King  H.  'Sblood ! 

And  all  my  army,  and  my  navy,  too ! 
Madam,  you  trifle  with  us  ;  pray  speak  out : 
I  swear  no  harm  shall  come,  whatever  you  say. 
What  paramours  has  she  ?     Nay,  I  command  ; 
Speak,  if  you  love  my  honor. 

Lady  R  Doleful  hour, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  161 

That  I  was  forced  to  see  her  wickedness  ; 
More  doleful  far,  to  tell  it !     Pray,  my  liege  — 

King  H.    I  '11  have  no  faltering.     Speak !    or  by 

high  heaven, 
Look  to  yourself !     , 

Lady  E.  I  am  but  a  timid  woman  ; 

You  are  my  king,  and  may  compel  my  tongue  : 
But  did  not  duty  —  pardon  wnat  I  say  — 

King  H.    Enough,  enough  ! 

Lady  E.  These  are  her  paramours  — 

Not  fancied,  but  with  certainty  of  proof — 
Sir  Henry  Norris,  William  Brereton, 
Sir  Francis  Weston,  master  Thomas  Wyatt  — 
All  proper  men,  all  men  of  gallant  parts  — 

King  H.  We  '11  spare  your  comments  on  the  lady's 
taste. 

Lady  E.    But  there  's  Mark   Smeaton,  a  low  com 
mon  knave, 

By  virtue  of  her  favor  made  a  groom  ; 
And  last  of  all,  my  husband,  Viscount  Rochford. 

King  H.    But  he  's  her  brother. 

Lady  E.  All  the  worse,  my  liege. 

King  H.    Monstrous  !  The  name  that  you  reserved 

to  crown 

The  utter  horror  of  this  long-drawn  list 
Throws  a  discredit  on  the  whole  device. 
Have  you  no  enemy  to  name  for  him  ? 
Have  you  denounced  them  all  ? 

Lady  E.  1  '11  prove  his  guilt 

More  clearly  than  the  crime  of  any  other. 
;T  was  but  this  morn  — 

King  H.  For  God's  sake,  take  her  hence  ! 

[  Walks  apart.} 

VOL.   I.  11 


162  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Nor.    The  king-  is  satisfied.     You  may  withdraw. 
You  have  pleased  him,  lady,  more  than  he  dare  show. 

[Exit  Viscoujitess  ROCHFORIX] 

King  H.    Must  all  these  die  ? 

Nor.  They  all  are  mortal,  sir ; 

And  our  fair  witness  must  have  that  agreed, 
Ere  she  impugn  them. 

King  H.  Ay,  her  serpent  mouth 

Would  sooner  spit  its  rancorous  member  forth 
Than  bate  one  jot  of  its  malicious  spleen : 
But  Wyatt  shall  not,  Wyatt  shall  not  die. 
We  have  had  enough  of  executing  scholars. 
Who  ever  heard  such  hubbub  through  the  world 
As  when  Sir  Thomas  More  was  put  to  death  ? 
Herod  and  Pilate  were  crowned  saints  to  me ! 
Why,  men  that  looked  like  moles,  old  dustj  things, 
Came  from  their  folios,  leaving  fear  behind, 
And  to  my  teeth  talked  of  the  infamy 
To  which  they  'd  damn  me.  —  Wyatt  shall  not  die. 
In  my  wide  realm  are  herds  of  courtiers, 
Knights  and  viscounts,  and  gallant  gentlemen  ; 
There  's  but  one  Wyatt.  —  Wyatt  shall  not  die  I 

{Exeunt.} 


SCENE  IV. 

A  Room  in  the  Duke  of  SCTFOLK'S  Palace.  Enter  Duke  of  SUF 
FOLK,  Duke  of  NORFOLK,  Marquis  of  EXETER,  and  Earl  ef 
ARUNDEL,  followed  by  MARK  SMEATON  and  RAJLPH  Loxrr. 

Norfolk.    I  tell  you,  fellow,  you  have  not  a  hope, 
Save  by  agreeing  to  forswear  the  queen. 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  163 

Your  guilty  boastings,  urged  against  yourself, 
Will  bring  you  to  the  gallows  — 

Arundel  Ay,  arid  shall. 

Nor.    Unless  before  the  Council  you  appear, 
And  there  denounce  your  royal  paramour. 

Smeaton.    But  will  that  save  me  ? 

Nor.  ;T  is  your  only  hope. 

Smea.    But  't  is  a  lie  —  a  gross,  atrocious  lie  — 
And  I  am  a  villain  if  I  uttered  it. 
Curse  on  the  wine  !     It  was  the  babbling  wine, 
And  not  my  tongue,  that  forged  the  calumny. 

Suffolk.    The  boast  you  made  was  heard  by  wit 
nesses, 
Who  say  you  were  but  warmed,  not  drunk  with  wine. 

Smea.    7T  is  false,  ?t  is  false  !     Have  mercy  on  me 

sirs  ! 

I  am  but  an  humble  man,  of  no  account ; 
My  death  at  this  time,  or  a  century  hence, 
Could  make  no  difference  to  such  mighty  lords. 
If  noble  mercy  stoops  not  to  the  low, 
At  least  be  just  to  me.  — 

Arun.  Cease,  whining  cur  ! 

The  game  we  are  playing  is  to  check  the  queen  ; 
What  care  we  for  a  pawn  ? 

Smea.  She  is  innocent. 

The  words  I  dropped  were  from  a  foolish  whim, 
To  see  myself  admired  by  simple  men : 
I  never  thought  to  injure  her,  nor  hear 
My  harmless  folly  rigidly  explained 
By  noblemen.     Ah  !  Loney,  you  did  this  ; 
And  'tis  the  foulest  act  you  ever  did, 
Though  you  have  committed  murder. 

Loney.  Help  yourself. 


164  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Be  not  a  double  fool,  first  to  get  trapped, 
Then  lack  the  art  to  burrow  out  of  harm. 
Forget  my  deeds  ;  they  are  my  own  concern  ; 
Nor  stand  there  moralizing  on  the  past. 
Seize  on  to-day  —  perchance  'tis  golden,  man. 

Smca.     "  Perchance,  perchance  !  "    but    not   one 

promise  given, 
I^ven  by  you. 

Lon.  The  course  they  offer  you 

Is  bright  with  hope  ;  despair  and  frightful  death, 
By  wrenching  tortures  and  heart-shrivelling  fires, 
Threaten  you  darkly  from  all  other  ways. 
I  know  your  courage.     When  you  have  been  racked 
For  one  short  fortnight,  or  a  month  at  most, 
You  '11  yield  perforce.     Why  not  confess  at  once, 
And  gain  the  hope  of  pardon  and  reward  ? 
Pray  did  you  ever  see  a  felon  racked, 
Even  for  an  hour  ? 

Arun.  Come,  fellow,  will  you  speak  ? 

Or  shall  I  sound  your  carcass  with  my  sword, 
To  find  your  tongue  ? 

Exeter.  The  valiant  gentleman  !     [Aside.] 

Smea.    0,  horror,  horror  !     Have  compassion,  sirs  I 
0  my  poor  mistress  !     Is  there  not  a  hand  — 
Now,  while  I  shut  my  eyes  —  so  merciful 
As  to  despatch  me,  and  deliver  her  ? 
She  is  my  maker,  —  she  created  me, 
From  my  vile  dust,  to  be  whate'er  I  am  ; 
As  well  might  I  blaspheme  as  stain  her  honor ! 
Good  sirs,  have  pity  ! 

Suf.  Cease  your  agonies, 

You  foul-mouthed  slanderer  of  Heaven's  majesty  ! 
Speak  to  the  point  —  will  you  comply  or  not? 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  160 

Smea.   But  will  that  save  me  ? 

Suf.  Are  we  prophets,  fool  ? 

What  else  can  save  you  ? 

Smea.  But  her  majesty  — 

What  will  befall  her  ? 

Nor.  What  is  that  to  you  ? 

Have  you  the  power  to  influence  her  fate  ? 

Arun.    Are  we  the  answers  in  your  catechism, 
That  you  so  glibly  question  ? 

Smea.  I  will  not ! 

Suf.    Loney,  prepare  the  rack.  [Exit  LONEY.] 

Smea.  Forgive  me,  Heaven  ! 

I  will  do  anything  :  but  spare  my  life  ! 
(),  this  is  awful !     I,  that  never  dared 
To  touch  her  robe,  or  raise  my  fearful  eyes 
To  the  full  glory  of  her  angel  face  — 
When  her  twin  orbs  of  conquering  majesty 
I  felt  upon  me  —  now,  with  stubborn  front, 
To  stand  before  the  gaze  of  frowning  Heaven, 
And  call  its  host  to  register  a  lie, 
A  black,  soul-killing  lie  !     0,  urge  it  not  I 
There  's  not  an  honest  man,  in  England's  realm, 
Who  will  not  sicken  at  my  perfidy, 
Or  cram  the  falsehood  down  my  caitiff  throat 
Ere  I  half  utter  it !     This  is  too  foul, 
And  useless  for  the  end  to  which  you  urge  it. 

Suf.    Loney,  the  rack. 

(Ji  curtain  is  drawn,  and  the  rack  disclosed,  with  Attendants 
standing  near  it.) 

Arun.  Look  there,  Sir  Constancy  ! 

There  's  what  shall  move  you,  every  joint  and  limb  — 


106  ANXE    BOLEYN. 

There 's   what  shall  stretch  you  more  than  you '  11 

stretch  truth. 
You  '11  strain  a  point  for  this  —  hey  !  hey  !  my  boy  ? 

Smea.    0,  nerve  me,  Heaven  ! — uplift  my  faltering 

heart ! 

Give  me  the  strength  to  foil  these  sinful  men, 
And  here  assert  thy  might ! 

Arun.  Away  with  him  ! 

[Attendants  seize  SMEATON.] 

Smea.    I  yield,  I  yield  ! 

Suf.  Then  sign  this  paper,  Mark, 

And  wait  the  issue.  [SMEATON  siyns.] 

Ex.  There  an  angel  fell ! 

Here  is  a  wretch  who  damns  his  endless  soul 
To  save  his  mortal  body.     I  had  hoped, 
For  the  poor  cause  of  frail  humanity, 
To  see  yon  fellow  win  a  martyr's  crown, 
And  give  the  Calendar  of  our  new  creed 
Its  first  accomplished  sainthood.     [Aside.] 

Suf.  It  is  done. 

Nor.    In  the  king's  name,  Mark  Smeaton  I  arrest 
For  treason  manifest.  [Attendants  seize  SMEATON.] 

Smea.  Is  this  your  mercy  ? 

Suf.    Traitor,  no  words  !     Away  with  him,  away  ! 

[Exeunt.} 

SCENE  V. 
An  Apartment  in  Whitehall  Palace.     Enter  KINO  HENRY. 

King  Henry.    How  easy  'tis  to  run  an  evil  course  ! 
How  many  stubborn  checks  a  virtuous  meets  I 
Sure  all  the  fiends  have  turned  them  engineers, 
And  smoothed  the  thousand  pathways  to  their  gulf, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  167 

So  quickly  trod  by  man.     There  's  not  a  let, 

As  far  as  reason's  straining  eye  can  pierce, 

To  the  career  which  sin  points  out  for  me. 

Jane  daily  warms  ;  the  queen  grows  proud  and  cold, 

Nor  now  besieges  me  with  tender  notes  ; 

My  nobles  leave  her,  all  afire  for  me  ; 

And  the  most  powerful  —  ay,  her  very  kin  — 

Hatch  plots  to  work  her  sudden  overthrow. 

My   love    goes    smoothly.  —  Hum  !    and   yet   H  is 

strange, 

When  not  within  the  circle  of  my  eyes  — 
That  drink  her  beauties  like  the  thirsting  sands, 
And  bear  the  hot  thrill  of  her  loveliness 
Into  my  very  soul  —  how  this  same  fever, 
That  fiercely  glowed  erewhile,  calms  and  is  cooled  ; 
How,  in  the  place  of  sudden  pangs  and  starts, 
And  all  unrest,  a  holy  peace  succeeds  ; 
When  comes  the  shape  of  my  much-wronged  queen, 
Crossing  my  mind  in  quiet  majesty, 
And  trampling  on  the  dust  of  noxious  fancies, 
That  throng  the  long,  long  avenues  of  thought, 
As  if  of  right  she  crushed  my  base  desires  ! 
(Enter  QUEEN  ANNE,  behind.) 

Queen  Anne.    Henry. 

King  H.       Was  that  a  spirit  ? 

Queen  A.  Husband,  king. 

King  H.    How  came  you  here  ?     I  left  direct  com 
mand 

That  no  one  should  disturb  my  privacy. 
Have  you  again  been  tampering  with  my  knaves  ? 

Queen  A.    I   came   by   a   small    passage  —  if  for 
gotten 
By  you,  my  liege,  still  to  my  memory  dear  — 


108  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Made  by  yourself,  in  that  once  happy  time, 
When,  unobserved,  you  came  to  woo  "the  Boleyn." 
Is  there  no  secret  passage,  you  can  name, 
Through  which  so  poor  a  one  as  I  may  creep 
Back  to  your  heart,  and  see  again  the  face 
Of  hidden  love  ?     0,  sir,  it  must  be  rough, 
And  small,  and  frightful  to  a  valiant  gaze, 
But  I  will  tempt  it. 

King  H.  There  is  none  for  you. 

Your  pride  and  haughtiness  and  stubborn  will 
Are  all  too  big  for  love's  slight  passages.  — 
Now,  by  my  faith,  I  am  indeed  amazed, 
To  hear  you  pleading  in  this  gentle  tone. 
Have  you  forgot  your  character  ?     Begin  ! 
Rail,  like  the  thunders,  at  our  guilty  world  ! 
So  ho  !  brave  censor  of  morality, 
Embodied  purity,  untouched  by  earth  !  — 
What,  are  you  pitiful  ?  or  have  you  sinned, 
And  therefore  feel  compassion  ? 

Queen  A.  I  have  sinned, 

And  tried  the  mercy  of  indulgent  Heaven 
Beyond  all  bounds  that  human  reason  knows. 
I  have  been  arrogant,  to  judge  my  kind 
By  God's  own  law,  not  seeing  in  myself 
A  guilty  judge  condemning  the  less  vile. 
I  have  forgotten  that  the  hand  of  death 
Would  snatch  the  royal  circle  from  my  brow, 
And  set  me,  but  encumbered  by  my  guilt, 
Equal  with  all,  before  the  judgment-seat. 
I  have  forgotten  mercy  :  so  might  God 
Forget  His  mercy  in  my  utmost  need. 
I  have  — 

King  H.      Root!  madam;  pray  restrain  yourself ! 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  169 

1  have  no  office  to  receive  confessions. 

Yet  —  since  you  force  me  to  play  ghostly  father  — 

Is  there  no  other  sin,  of  grosser  cast, 

By  you  committed,  not  towards  Heaven  alone, 

But  to  my  honor  ? 

Queen  A.  'T  is  a  hideous  lie  ! 

Who  has  abused  your  majesty's  belief 
With  such  unworthy  tattle  ?     Did  you  stand 
And  tarnely  hear  your  honor  thus  belied  ? 
I  knew  that  I  had  enemies  enough, 
Unscrupulous  and  cruel ;  but  never  deemed 
Such  base,  malicious,  and  unfounded  charge 
Could  move  a  human  lip,  or  find  an  ear 
So  used  to  gorging  sickly  mental  stuff 
As  to  receive  it.     Try  me,  try  me,  sir. 
Wring  every  fibre  of  my  woman's  frame 
With  piercing  tortures — hold  my  modesty, 
In  truth's  keen  sunlight,  to  the  vulgar  gaze  — 
Confront  me  crownless  with  my  slanderers  : 
If  at  the  last  my  trial  prove  me  clear, 
And  reiinite  our  long-dissevered  hearts, 
I  '11  hold  the  pain  but  lightly. 

King  H.  Pshaw  !  my  child, 

You  waste  your  energy.     This  base  report 
Is  the  light  mintage  of  some  idle  tongue, 
In  want  of  truer  metal. 

Queen  A.  Ah  !  my  liege, 

I  hold  this  shallow  falsehood  at  its  worth  ; 
But  it  afflicts  me  sadly,  to  behold 
Your  easy  method  of  avoiding  it, 
Without  a  thought  of  punishing  the  wrong. 
How  have  I  changed  ?  —  0,  Henry,  you  have  changed 
From  that  true  Henry  whp,  in  bygone  days, 


170  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Rode,  with  the  hurry  of  a  northern  gale, 

Towards   Hever's   heights,   and   ere    the   park   was 

gained, 

Made  the  glad  air  a  messenger  of  love, 
By  many  a  blast  upon  your  hunting-horn. 
Have  you  forgotten  that  old  oaken  room, 
Fearful  with  portraits  of  my  buried  race, 
Where  I  received  you  panting  from  your  horse  ; 
As  breathless,  from  my  dumb  excess  of  joy, 
As  you  with  hasty  travel  ?     Do  you  think 
Of  our  sweet  meetings  'neath  the  gloomy  yews 
Of  Sopewell  Nunnery,  when  the  happy  day 
That  made  me  yours  seemed  lingering  as  it  came, 
More  slowly  moving  as  it  nearer  drew  ? 
How  you  chid  time,  and  vowed  the  hoary  knave 
Might  mark  each  second  of  his  horologe 
With  dying  groans,  from  those  you  cherished  most, 
So  he  would  hasten  — 

King  H.  Anne,  that  was  you. 

Have  you  forgotten,  too,  my  merriment 
At  your  quaint  figure  of  time's  human  clock, 
Whose  every  beat  a  soul's  flight  registered  ? 

Queen  A.    God  bless  you,  Henry  !     [Embraces  him.} 

King  H.  Pshaw !  why  touch  so  deep  ? 

These  softening  memories  of  our  early  love 
Come  o'er  me  like  my  childhood. 

Queen  A.  Love  be  praised, 

That  with  such  pure  reflections  couples  me  ! 
Be  steadfast,  Henry. 

King  H.  Fear  not :  love  is  poor 

That  seals  not  compacts  with  the  stamp  of  faith. 

Queen  A.  My  stay  is  trespass.  We  shall  meet  anon. 
Love  needs  no  counsel  in  hjs  little  realm. 

[Embraces  him,  and  exit.] 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  171 

King  H.    I  hang  'twixt  heaven  and  hell.  —  Anne, 

return  ; 

For,  by  my  soul,  one  half  my  virtuous  strength 
Has  gone  with  you  !     0,  I  would  rather  be 
The  snarling  cynic  in  his  squalid  tub, 
And  master  of  myself,  than  England's  king, 
Reared  to  indulgence  qf  each  flimsy  whim 
That  passion  hints  at.     7T  is  the  curse  of  kings, 
This  slaving  to  our  pampered  appetites  ; 
Which  thwarted  men  nursed  in  vicissitude, 
And  by  compulsion  taught  to  check  desire, 
Gain  strength  to  vanquish. 

(Enter  JANE  SEYMOUB.) 

Jane  Seymour.  Harry,  royal  Harry  ! 

King  H.    Good-morrow,  mistress  Seymour. 
Jane  S.  Ha  !  so  cold  — 

The  queen  just  gone  !  I  '11  match  you,  whirligig. 


I  crave  your  pardon,  that  with  rude  alarm 
I  thus  disturbed  your  gracious  majesty, 
Seeking  for  one  I  nicknamed  royal  Harry  — 
Not  meaning  disrespect  to  you,  rny  liege, 
But  from  a  wanton  fancy.     Had  I  thought 
Your  majesty  here  present,  I  'd  have  held 
A  stricter  rein  upon  my  noisy  tongue. 

King  H.    Ah  !  she  is  beautiful.     This  little  mood, 
Of  mingled  coquetry  and  tearful  spite, 
Sits  like  the  angry  rain-drops  on  a  rose, 
Giving  fresh  lustre  to  its  crimson  cheeks.         [Aside.] 
You  have  my  pardon. 

Jane  S.  Nay,  I  wish  it  not. 

Pray  cast  your  pardon  on  a  graver  slip  : 
Forgive  the  maiden  greenness  of  a  heart 


172  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

That  prattled  to  itself  a  silly  tale 

Of  love,  and  hope,  and  thoughtless  confidence, 

Even  in  your  very  presence. 

King  H.  Jane,  what  mean  you  ? 

Jane  S.    But  what  my  words  imply. 

King  H.  And  are  you  angry  ? 

Jane  S.    No,  I  am  deceived. 

King   H.  Truce,  truce,  fair  mistress  ! 

Jane  S.    Nay,  peace  is  not  my  purpose. 

King  H.  Prithee  stop  ! 

Jane  S.    You  may  be  king  of  half  the  un^rse, 
For  aught  I  care  ;  you  are  not  king  of  hearts  : 
My    heart    shall    speak,    though    every    word    cry 
treason  ! 

King  H.   Forgive  my  coldness. 

Jane  S.  Ah  !  I  never  deemed 

A  truer  spirit  lived  than  yours,  my  liege  : 
Else  why  did  you,  from  your  exalted  height, 
Descend  with  fluttering  promises  of  love  ?  — 
Only  to  make  me  wretched  !     0,  't  is  base  ! 
A  brutal  hind  might  show  more  constancy 
Than  this  anointed  king.  [  Weeps.] 

King  H.  Nay,  weep  not,  Jane.         [Kneels.] 

See  me  thus  lowly  in  my  penitence. 
I  swear  I  meant  no  insult  to  you,  darling ; 
And  here,  upon  my  knees,  I  once  again 
Put  on  the  easy  fetters  of  my  heart. 

Jane  S.    Swear  fealty  to  love  !  Your  fickleness 
Reproaches  more  your  manly  character, 
Than  the  poor  wrong  to  me  — 

King  H.  I  swear,  by  Heaven, 

Henceforth  to  love  you  with  all  constancy, 
By  night,  by  day,  in  sunshine  and  in  storm  ; 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  173 

Nor  will  I  alter  in  my  steadfast  aim 

To  crown  you  queen,  though  every  mortal  sin, 

That  fiends  can  reckon  in  their  calendar, 

Lie  between  me  and  my  unfaltering  wish  !        [Rises.] 

Jane  3.    This  oath  is  fearful. 

King  H.  But  irrevocable.  — 

What  ask  you  more  ? 

Jane  S.  0,  sir,  I  asked  not  that : 

I  but  demand  of  you  a  bare  return 
For  the  great  venture  of  my  woman's  heart, 
Unhappily  launched  upon  a  sea  of  love, 
With  you  for  careless  pilot.     'T  is  my  all ; 
Though  you  esteem  the  charge  of  little  worth. 

King  H.    Tut,  tut,  my  darling  !  if  our  hearts   re 
spond, 

Our  windy  tongues  are  poor  ambassadors 
To  bear  their  gentle  greetings.     Love  is  dumb, 
A  potent  spirit,  felt,  but  never  heard, 
Save  when  he  murmurs  inarticulate 
'Tween  meeting  lips,  or  buzzes  wild  conceits, 
That  rnock  the  language  of  our  grosser  sense, 
In  lover's  brains.     Words  are  love's  counterfeits  : 
When  stumbling  fools  would  ape  a  shallow  passion, 
Lies  slide  full  glibly,  and  false  rhetoric, 
Lashed  to  a  foam,  roars  opposition  down, 
And  for  effect  kills  feeling.     Rail  no  more  ; 
Or  I  shall  doubt  that  sweet  sincerity 
On  which  I  live. 

Jane  S.  0,  never  doubt  my  faith. 

King  H.    Nor   will   I.      (Embraces  her.)      I    will   bal 
my  pliant  ears 

Against  the  witchery  of  sly  Anne's  tongue : 
Her  airy  magic  cheats  my  spell-bound  heart, 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


And  for  a  moment  shows  a  fancied  spot, 
Bright  with  the  May-day  flowers  of  early  love, 
Amid  December's  snow.     And  now  for  Norfolk. 

Jane  S.    Nothing  in  haste,  my  liege. 

Kin9  S.  No  ;  all  in  love.       [Exeunt.] 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  175 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.  The  Lists  at  Greenwich,  prepared  for  a  Tournament. 
Flourish.  Enter  KING  HENRY,  QUEEN  ANNE,  Lords,  Ladies, 
Attendants,  Men-at-arms,  etc.  The  King  and  Queen  seat 
themselves  under  the  cloth  of  state.  Then  enter  the  lists  Vis 
count  ROCHFORD  and  other  Knights,  as  Challengers,  with  Her 
alds,  Squires,  Pages,  etc.  Trumpets  sound  a  challenge.  To 
them  enter  Sir  HENRY  NORRIS  and  other  knights,  as  Defenders, 
with  Attendants,  etc.  Flourish.  ROCHFORD,  NORRIS,  and  their 
respective  Knights,  engage.  NORRIS  and  his  party  are  driven 
back. 

Queen   Anne.     I   PRAY   your    highness,    let   them 

breathe  a  while  ; 

Their  sport  grows  earnest.     Ill  may  come  of  this  : 
Rochford  is  dangerous  when  his  blood  is  up. 

Xing  Henry.    Poh !    poh !    mere  bruises.      Would 

you  rather  see 
Rochford  or  Norris  wounded  ? 

Queen  A.  Neither,  neither  !  — 

Good  sir,  'tis  frightful. 

King  H.  .Ha !  so  kind  to  both  ? 

Then  love  admits  not  of  relationship. 

Queen  A.    Sound,  herald,  sound  I 

(Trumpets  sound  a  retreat,  and  the  combat  ceases.) 

Xing  H.  Now,  by  the  holy  rood  !     [Starts  up.] 

If  we  were  speechless,  Heaven  had  been  most  kind 
In  sending  one  to  exercise  our  function. 


lib  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Queen  A.    I  feared,  my  liege  — 
King  H.  0,  this  is  nothing  new  : 

You  have  governed  England,  me  amongst  the  rest, 
Since   God  knows  when  !  —  You    thing  of  painted 

cloth, 

When  next  you  blow  without  your  king's  command, 
Look  to  your  tabard.  —Is  our  queen  our  tongue  ? 

[QUEEN  ANNE,  in  her  terror,  drops  her  handkerchief. 
NORRIS  picks  it  up,  kisses,  and  returns  it.} 

Monstrous,  by  Jove  !  What,  in  our  very  presence  1  - 
Shameless  adulteress  !     Let  the  tilt  be  stopped  ! 
We  are  as  patient  as  most  ill-used  men, 
But  this  we  cannot  bear.     Set  on,  before  ! 
Was  ever  king  thus  openly  defied  ? 

[Exit  with  Courtiers] 
Queen  A.    0  !  horror,  horror  ! 

[She  faints,  and  is  borne  off.l_ 

Eochford.  Norris,  did  I  hear  ? 

Or  am  I  singled  from  among  you  all, 
To  bear  the  terrors  of  this  fantasy  ? 

Norris.    Alas  !  your  senses  serve  too  faithfully  : 
Would  I  could  doubt  you  sane  ! 

(Enter  THOMAS  WYATT,  hastily.) 

Wijatt.  Fly,  Rochford,  fly  ! 

And  you,  Sir  Henry  Norris,  if  you  'd  live. 

Nor.   I  fly  !  and  wherefore  ? 

Wijatt.  Ask  not,  but  away  — 

Away  to  Scotland  ;  nor  till  every  inch 
Of  English  ground  has  vanished  from  your  sight, 
Draw  rein  or  spare  the  spur ! 

Roch.  0  !  I  am  stunned 

With  mere  intensity  of  present  grief ; 
No  after  blow,  that  cuts  my  torpid  soul 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  177 

Loose  from  its  clay,  can  bear  a  pang  for  me ! 
I  will  not  fly  to  live.     I  have  beheld 
A  sight  to  force  me  into  league  with  death  — 
The  most  unkingly,  meanest,  foulest  deed 
That  brother's  eyes  e'er  saw. 

Wyatt.  Now  'tis  too  late. 

(Enter  an>.  OFFICER  and  GUARD.) 

Officer.    Lord   Eochford    and    Sir   Henry  Norris, 

yield  ; 

I  do  arrest  you  for  high  treason,  sirs. 
Give  up  your  arms,  and  follow  to  the  Tower. 

Eoch.    Yes,   yes.     Come,   Norris ;  for  I  make   no 

doubt 

What  was  our  virtue  has  become  our  guilt : 
Love  to  the  queen  is  treason  to  the  king. 
When  the  great  fall  the  little  must  be  crushed. 

Nor.    Wyatt,    what   means   this  ?     I  accused   of 
treason ! 

Wyatt.    Ay,  't  is  a  royal  charge  ! 

Nor.  Ha  !  say  you  so  ? 

Had  you  this  order  from  his  majesty, 
Or  from  the  Council  ?  [To  the  OFFICER.] 

Offi.  From  the  king  direct. 

Corne,  gentlemen  ;  my  office  stands  in  peril 
By  my  indulgence  to  you. 

Eoch.  Farewell,  Wyatt ! 

Nor.   My  lord,  be  not  down-hearted.     This  affair 
Will  soon  blow  over. 

jRoch.  Yes,  to  other  men  ; 

But  I  much  fear  that  on  my  latest  day 
It  will  have  reached  its  climax. 

Offi.  Come,  sirs,  come  ! 

VOL.  i.  12 


178  ANNE    BOLKYN. 

Wyatt.    Iloaven  send  your  innocence  a  quick  re 
lease  ! 

Roch.    With  death  to  bear  the  warrant. 

[Exeunt  ROCHFORD,  NORRIS,  OFFICER,  and  GUARD.] 

Wyatt.  So  1  fear, 

Doomed  victims  of  a  ruthless  tyranny. 
0,  coming  shape  of  English  liberty, 
Have  my  desires  played  wanton  to  mine  ears  ; 
Or  do  I  hear  the  faint  prophetic  sound 
Of  thy  approaching  footsteps  echoing  through 
The  mists  of  coming  time  ?     Ye  noble  souls, 
Grim  heroes  of  the  field  of  Runnymede, 
Showing  more  glorious  in  your  iron  arms, 
On  peaceful  deeds,  than  in  successful  wars  — 
Inspire  the  souls  of  your  too  slothful  race  ! 
Must  all  the  liberty  your  courage  won 
Slip  from  the  hands  to  which  you  rendered  it ; 
Till  the  supineness  of  our  base  neglect 
Sink  us  to  slaves  ?     Is  there  no  man  alive  — 
No  heaven-marked  hero,  from  the  people  sprung  — 
To  lead  the  roaring  multitudes  of  earth 
Along  the  fated  pathway  they  must  tread,  — 
Ay,  though  they  cross  the  throne,  and  trample  out 
The  sacred  name  and  dignity  of  king  ? 
Has  man  no  rights  but  what  a  tyrant  doles  ?  — 
No  fate  above  his  will  ?  no  claim  on  justice  ? 
Then  doth  God  wrong  His  own  dread  sovereignty, 
And  free  us  from  allegiance.     And  she  has  fallen, 
Sole  star  amid  this  night  of  tyranny  I 
How  low  I  know  not ;  but  what  eye  e'er  saw 
The  falling  star  remount  and  shine  again  ? 
I  feel  my  weakness  to  support  her  cause, 
Against  this  pampered  monster  of  a  king  — 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  179 

This  frightful  idol  of  the  people's  will, 

Throned  on  the  superstitious  reverence 

Of  the  poor  fools  that  glut  his  savage  maw. 

0,  what  a  curse  to  have  an  honest  heart, 

Hemmed   in    and   cramped   by  the   fixed   frame   of 

things, 

That,  were  it  free,  might  move  the  stubborn  world, 
And  hang  its  glories  on  the  brow  of  time  I        [Exit.] 


SCENE    II. 
A  Roo7n  in  the  Palace  of  Whitehall.     Enter  KING  HENRY. 

King  Henry.    Too  late,  too  late  I     I  charged  her 

openly  ; 

The  issue  now  lies  between  her  and  me, 
And  not  between  her  innocence  and  guilt. 
I  am  a  villain,  or  the  queen  is  false, 
Since  I  became  accuser  of  her  truth  : 
If  she  escape  conviction,  on  the  crown 
Descends  the  infamy  of  calumny, 
And  through  our  person  England  will  be  shamed 
Before  the  jealous  powers  of  Christendom. 
So,  so  1  we  owe  it  to  our  people,  then, 
To  prove  our  charge,  or  by  conviction  sure 
Seem  to  attest  it.  —  This  is  plain  enough. 
Besides,  in  what  regard  stands  common  life 
Before  our  kingly  honor?     Julius  said 
That  Caesar's  wife  must  be  without  a  taint ; 
And,  but  suspecting,  put  Pompeia  by.  — 
Wise  Caesar!  'twas  a  solemn  precedent 
That  kings  should  follow.     Wherefore  halt  I  now  ? 


ISO  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

A  limping  purpose  never  reached  its  mark, 
Though    justice    pointed.      Should    her    guilt   be 

proved  ?  — 

Should  an  impartial  court  of  noble  peers 
Condemn  her  too  ?     0,  woful,  woful  thought ! 
How  shall  I  pardon  her  gross  treachery  ? 
Their  candid  verdict  will  stop  pity's  ears, 
And  force  conviction  to  my  doubting  mind. 
She  shall  have  trial,  fair  and  open  trial  — 
No  honest  men  would  wrong  the  innocent ; 
And  if  they  do  ?  —  her  blood  but  swells  their  crimes  ; 
I  escape  stainless. 
(Enter  Sir  HENRY  NORRIS  in  custody  of  OFFICER  and  GUARD.) 

Officer,  withdraw ; 
But  stand  in  hail.      (Exeunt  OFFICER  and  GUARD.)      Ah  I 

Norris,  Henry  Norris, 
You  have  abused  that  open  confidence 
In  which  we  held  you. 

Norris.  I  !  and  how,  my  liege  ? 

King  H.    Nay,  strive  not,  sir,  to  hide  your  secret 

guilt 

With  artful  candor  and  affected  starts. 
Sin  can  put  on  the  guise  of  innocence ; 
Nor  ever  cheats  us  with  its  ugliness, 
But  with  its  seeming  beauty. 

Nor.  On  my  life, 

I  know  not  to  what  sin  your  tongue  directs. 
King  H.    Have  you  not  wronged  me  ? 
Nor.  Wronged  your  majesty  ! 

King  H.   Yes  ;  have  you  not,  to  swell  your  amor 
ous  triumphs, 

And  make  yourself  an  envied  libertine, 
Seduced  the  virtue  of  our  fickle  queen  ? 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  181 

Nor.    Your  grace  is  merry.     [Laughing.'} 

King  H.  Merry  !  are  you  mad  ? 

I  say  it  can  be  proved. 

Nor.  Proved  !     Set  the  hound 

That  howled  this  lying  folly  in  your  ears 
Within  the  reach  of  my  chastising  sword, 
And  if  I  send  him  not  to  fiery  hell, 
With  his  foul  tattle  warm  upon  his  lips, 
Rack  me  to  powder  ! 

King  H.  Acted  to  the  life  ! 

Nor.    0,  no,  my  liege  ;  'tis  but  the  natural  heat 
That  would  boil  over  every  English  lip, 
To  hear  their  queen  traduced. 

King  H.  Be  calm,  Sir  Harry. 

So  much  we  hold  the  honor  of  our  realm 
Before  the  vengeance  due  to  private  wrongs, 
That  we  have  vowed  to  bury  our  own  grief, 
And  grant  free  pardon  to  whatever  man  — 
Even  though  he  were  her  fondest  paramour  — 
Will  fix  the  crime'  upon  her  guilty  head. 

Nor.    I  am  not  he.     I  thought,  until  this  hour,  — 
Ay,  and  still  think,  and  will,  despite  report,— 
Our  queen  as  loyal  to  your  majesty 
As  the  chaste  moon  is  to  her  regal  sun, 
Drinking  no  other  beams.     What  though  she  shine 
Upon  the  darkness  of  our  grateful  earth, 
To  cheer  the  spirits  of  night-foundered  men  ?  — 
That  which  she  gives,  she  borrows  from  yourself; 
Fruitful  to  her,  but,  when  it  falls  on  us, 
The  calm,  cold  splendor  of  reflected  light. 

King  H.    Norris,  beware  !  you  carry  this  too  far : 
If  you  confess  not,  instant,  shameful  death 
Awaits  your  stubborn  spirit. 


182  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Nor.  Be  it  so  : 

I'll  rather  add  a  thousand  stings  to  death, 
Than  give  one  pang  to  suffering  innocence. 

King  H.    Then  be  it  so,  you  contumacious  boy  ! 
Have  I  embraced  you  in  my  trusting  heart, 
To  be  denied  when  I  demand  return  ? 

Nor.   Ha !  do  I  hear  ?     What  saw  your  majesty, 
Even  in  so  poor  a  man  as  Henry  Norris, 
To  make  you  hold  me  for  a  supple  tool 
To  work  your  bloody  purpose  ?     You  must  go 
A  step  below  a  knight  arid  gentleman, 
To  find  a  villain  fitted  to  your  wish. 

King  H.    Poh  !  poh  !  coy  virtue,  is  it  villanous 
To  show  obedience  when  your  king  commands  ? 

Nor.   Is  there  no  power  in  every  honest  breast, 
Above  the  terrors  of  your  threatening  will, 
'Neath  whose  fixed  look  my  guilty  memory 
Shall  cower  in  horror  ? 

King  H.  You  must  do  this  deed.  — 

Nay,  I  adjure  you. 

Nor.  0,  my  gracious  liege  — 

King  H.    No  words,  no  words  ! 

Nor.  A  vaunt,  damned  hypocrite  ! 

I  here  defy  your  utmost  reach  of  wrath  : 
The  cruelest  death,  your  wickedness  can  shape, 
Would  be  a  joy  to  what  you  offer  me. 
Stretch  your  base  tortures  through  all  coming  timo, 
And  in  the  end  they  can  but  kill  my  clay ; 
But  you  would  turn  my  hand  to  impious  use, 
And  make  me,  like  a  frantic  suicide, 
Stab  at  the  life  of  my  eternal  soul  — 
That,  by  God's  blessing,  shall  outlast  youl  .iate, 
And  reign  triumphant  when  your  crown  is  dross! 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  183 

King  H.    Hold,  villain,  hold !    or   I   will   let   the 

breath 
Out  of  your  treacherous  body  !     [Draws.] 

Nor.  Do,  my  liege, 

And  join  assassination  to  the  crimes 
That  blot  your  monstrous  heart.  —  I  will  not  hold  : 
I  see  you  are  bent  upon  destroying  me, 
And,  as  a  reckless  man,  1 711  know  your  worst. 
0,  woe  to  England,  when  this  sinful  king, 
Grown  hard  in  crime,  shall  reach  the  fearful  height 
That  evil  points  him  !     Then  shall  — 

King  H.  Brazen  traitor  ! 

Dare  you  invoke  our  vengeance  on  your  head? 
Without,  there  !        (Reenter  OFFICER  and   GUARD.)        See 

your  prisoner  to  the  Tower. 
If  he  escape,  you  'd  better  hang  yourselves 
Than  live  to  tell  it.     Out,  malignant  traitor  I 

[Exit  Sir  HENRY  NORRIS,  in  custody  of  the  GUARD.] 
0,  the  ingratitude  of  fickle  man  ! 
The  shifting  sand  that  tumbles  in  the  tide, 
Taking  new  form  from  every  wanton  surge, 
Is  not  more  changeful  than  his  rootless  heart. 
He  is  a  bark  upon  an  angry  sea, 
Unballasted,  yet  ever  crowding  sail ; 
Careening  now  to  passion's  fiery  gust, 
Now  to  the  other  side  prostrated  flat 
By  self-styled  reason's  icy  hurricane  ; 
Yet  never  sailing  on  an  even  keel  — 
Ever  extreme,  and  no  extreme  the  best. 
Who  that  had  seen  the  favors  I  have  showered, 
As  thick  and  prodigal  as  Spring's  warm  sun, 
Upon  the  head  of  that  remorseless  wretch, 
Could  have  foreknown  the  desert  barrenness 


184  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Of  his  rude  heart !  —  Pah  !  I  am  sick  of  it. 
0,  the  ingratitude  of  wicked  man  ! 


SCENE    IH. 

The  Queen's  Apartments  in  the  Palace.    QUEEN  ANNE  and  MARY 
WYATT. 

Queen  Anne.    No  audience,  said  you  ? 

Mary  Wyatt.  None,  your  highness,  none. 

Queen  A.    But  are  you  sure  his  majesty  refused 
To  read  my  letter  ? 

Mary  W.  Very  sure  ;  or  whence 

The  new-sprung  insolence  of  every  groom  ? 
They  passed  me  by,  for  nigh  a  weary  hour, 
Without  observance.     When  at  length  I  spoke, 
Demanding  audience  in  your  highness'  name, 
They  almost  thrust  me  from  the  ante-room, 
With  taunts  and  sneers.    One  knave,  a  malpert  page, 
By  you  presented  to  his  majesty, 
Said,  with  his  arms  akimbo,  in  a  style 
That  mimicked  the  king's  bearing,  "  Mistress  Mary, 
When  we  desire  to  know  of  blubbering  spells, 
At  your  sad  corner  of  our  merry  holise, 
We  '11  come  to  seek  them  :  —  till  that  time,  adieu  I  " 
At  this  his  fellows  grinned,  like  tickled  apes, 
And  winked,  and  leered  at  me ;  till  I,  abashed  — 
More  that  such  things  were  human,  than  for  fear 
Of  any  shame  their  insults  might  provoke  — 
Came  sadly  here,  my  mission  unachieved. 

Queen  A.    I  blame  you  not :  I  trusted  in  your  zeal, 
Knowing  its  failure  set  all  hope  aside 


ANNE    BOLKYN.  185 

Save  that  which  harbors  in  myself.     Must  1 

Again  go  begging  for  his  chary  love, 

After  the  public  shame  he  put  me  to  ? 

Must  I  go  whimpering  like  a  stricken  cur  — 

I  who  am  wronged,  and  should  demand  redress  — 

And  pray,  in  mercy  to  my  feebleness, 

This  blow  may  be  the  last  ?     Degrading  thought ! 

Were  I  the  housewife  of  his  lowest  clown, 

Caned  to  obedience  by  a  drunkard's  hand, 

My  woman's  heart  has  in  it  pride  enough 

To  burst  ere  bear  this  last  humility. 

Mary  W.    If  pity  move  him  — 

Queen  A.  Pity  !  there  's  a  shame, 

More  fearful  in  its  furious  rebuke, 
That  follows  threatening  on  the  heels  of  wrong — 
An  earthly  hell  in  which  the  conscience  writhes, 
And  lashes  round  its  fiery  barrier, 
Till  suffering  purify  the  tortured  soul  ;  — 
This  he  must  feel,  ere  meek-eyed  Pity's  hand 
Will  ope  the  silver  gates  of  penitence, 
And  through  forgiveness  show  the  way  to  peace. 

Mary  W.    0,  may  he  feel  it ! 

Queen  A.  Feel  it !  he  is  human. 

Mary  W.    Yes  ;  but  before  some  heavier  injury 
Make  pity  useless. 

Queen  A.  Pray,  speak  plainly,  girl ! 

I  see  your  heart  is  full  with  mystery. 
What  new  misfortune  is  about  to  fall  ? 

Mary  W.    None,  as  I  hope. 

Queen  A.  Nay,  this  is  churlishness : 

You  have  some  secret  that  may  profit  me. 
If  I  am  ignorant  of  coming  ills, 
How  shall  I  guard  me  with  expedients 


180  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Against  tlieir  wrath  ?     The  man  by  death  assailed 

Is  last  to  know  the  danger  he  is  in. 

I  make  no  doubt,  but  half  the  palace  lackeys 

Have  drawn  a  surer  presage  of  my  fate, 

From  buzzing  rumor,  could  more  truly  tell 

What  will  befall  me  for  a  year  to  come, 

Than  I,  with  my  own  lot  to  outward  seeming 

Within  my  grasp,  could  compass  by  design. 

So  hangs  our  fate  upon  the  breath  of  all, 

That  oft  a  rumor  shapes  the  destiny 

Of  feeble  wills. 

Mary  W.  'T  would  but  fatigue  your  ears, 

Not  profit  you,  to  hear  the  thousand  woes 
That  fools  predict  upon  your  majesty  : 
But  there  's  much  comfort  in  the  croak  of  folly. 

Queen  A.    0,  merely  thus  ?  naught  in  particular? 
Well,  let  them  rail ;  the  gale  is  adverse  now, 
I  must  expect  this  dash  of  saucy  spray 
Full  in  my  face :  anon  the  wind  will  change  ; 
Then  they  '11  come  tripping  to  my  very  heels, 
Sparkling  with  joy,  and  glad  to  decorate 
My  rearward  path. 

Man/  W.  Heaven  guard  your  cheerful  mind  ! 

Queen  A.    Actions  begun  in  cheerfulness  display 
The  merry  herald  that  foreruns  success. 
The  smile  that  lights  an  earnest  countenance 
Seems  as  a  gleam  from  some  vast  mental  fire 
That  burns  within,  and  ever  flashes  out, 
Like  tropic  lightning  on  a  summer  night ; 
Harmless,  indeed,  yet  hinting  of  a  power 
That,  moved  to  wrath,  might  shake  the  seated  eartl 
To  sulk  at  sorrow  dulls  the  edge  of  will, 
And  half  unfits  us  for  prosperity  ; 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  187 

Much  more  for  danger,  where  each  faculty 
That  gives  us  sway  is  needed  at  its  full. 

Mary  W.   When  took  your  highness  to  philosophy  ? 

Queen  A.    Ha!  you  malicious  elf!     When  heavy 

griefs 

First  leaguered  my  poor  heart,  through  it  I  found 
A  path  to  wander  from  perplexing  fears 
That  lost  in  speculation  dismal  self. 
Sorrow  makes  many  a  deep  philosopher. 

Mary  W.    Great   minds   may  carry  a  great   load 

unbowed. 

Ah,  me  !  it  brings  me  to  my  woman's  part, 
To  hear  these  strains  of  sweet  philosophy 
Kise  from  her  injured  spirit.     (Aside,  weeping.)     Sure 

the  God 

Who  suffers  mischief  to  afflict  you  thus, 
Gives  you  the  strength  to  bear  it. 

Queen  A.  Doubtless,  doubtless. 

(Enter  THOMAS  WYATT.) 

Mary  W.    My  brother,  please  you.  [Retires.] 

Queen  A.  Ah  !  good  master  Wyatt, 

What  news  abroad  ?    Why  do  you  shake  your  head  ? 
Why  wear  that  funeral  face  ?     It  seems  to  me 
That  all  my  friends  would  plunder  me  of  grief. 
Came  you  alone  ?     Where  are  my  other  friends  ? 

Wyatt.    Gone  with  the  summer  flies.     The  day  is 

dark  ; 

And  they  that  erewhile  revelled  in  your  light, 
Now  sluggish  hide  in  close  obscurity, 
And  prophesy  of  falling  weather  soon. 

Queen  A.  But  Rochford  ?  he  is  true  in  sun  or  shade. 

Wyatt.    Ay,  by  my  soul !     And  know  you  not  ? 


188  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Queen  A.  Not  I. 

Wyatt.    Indeed  ?  —  That  I  should  bear  the  intelli 
gence  ! 

Queen  A.    These   dread   inductions  to  ill-omened 

news, 

Pitch  swift  imagination  far  below 
The  heaviest  fact.     Out  with  it,  tender  sir  ! 
What  ever  saw  you  like  a  fear  in  me  ? 

Wyatt.    Lodged  in  the  Tower. 

Queen  A.  A  prisoner  1  on  what  charge  ? 

.    Wyatt.    A  charge  as  common  now  as  larceny, — 
High  treason. 

Queen  A.  Treason  !  who  is  loyal,  then  ? 

0  !  what  a  shallow  matter  for  arrest ! 
Poor    Rochford  i  —  This    is    strange. — How    bears 
he  it  ? 

Wyatt.    As  innocence  e'er  bears  calamity, — 
Suffering  in  body,  but  content  at  heart. 

Queen  A.    I  '11  to  the   king.     Are  not  my  wrongs 

enough, 

But  that  my  foes  must  vex  my  kindred  too  ? 
For  Rochford's  sake,  I  '11  quell  my  stubborn  pride, 
And  ask  the  justice  I  deny  myself. 

Wyatt.  Ah  !  would  you  might !  See  you  yon  sentinel 
Who  counts  his  steps  along  the  corridor  ? 
That  knave  has  orders  from  his  majesty, 
On  no  account  to  let  your  highness  pass. 

Queen  A.    Good  sir,  what  augurs  this  ?     1  feel  it 

here  — 

Here  at  my  heart  —  a  quaking  like  the  step 
Of  some  advancing  doom.     'T  is  terrible, 
To  be  environed  by  an  enemy 
Whose  very  aims  are  hidden.     Give  me  light ! 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  189 

0,  Wyatt,  show  me  but  my  coward  foes, 

Though  they  are  numberless  as  Egypt's  plagues  — • 

Let  me  but  see  the  weapons  in  their  hands, 

Though  they  can  daunt  the  angry  Thunderer, 

And  I  '11  confront  them  !     But  to  be  assailed 

By  arrows  that  seem  raining  from  the  clouds  — 

To  see  my  tribe,  like  Niobe's,  cut  down, 

Nor  know  what  time  my  breast  may  be  transfixed  — 

To  feel  myself  the  cause  of  all  this  woe, 

Without  the  chance  of  offering  stroke  for  stroke, 

Is  next  to  madness  ! 

Wyatt.  All  I  know  is  this, — 

Lord  Rochford,  Norris,  Brereton,  and  Weston, 
As  the  most  noted  followers  of  your  highness, 
Have  been  arrested,  charged  with  secret  treason. 
In  what  particulars  their  guilt  consists, 
Even  wakeful  rumor  has  not  been  informed  ; 
Nor  are  the  prisoners  wiser  than  the  world. 
That  popinjay,  Mark  Smeaton,  too,  has  had 
Some  private  hearings  in  the  council-room, 
After  a  tampering  which  he  underwent 
At  Suffolk's  house. 

Queen  A.  No  more  of  him  ;  — he  's  harmless. 

All  these  brave  hearts  to  suffer  for  my  sake  ! 
0  !  deadly  cowards  !  to  remove  these  props, 
Whose  sturdy  valor  might  have  long  upheld 
Even  the  structure  of  a  tottering  cause  ! 

Wyatt.     Whatever    scheme    your    enemies    have 

formed, 

Is  now  converted  to  a  state  affair  : 
Your  highness  therefore  must  expect  a  blow, 
Not  from  lords  Suffolk,  Norfolk,  and  their  friends, 
But  from  the  Council. 


190  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Queen  A.  Let  them  only  come  ! 

My  heart  is  aching  to  begin  the  fray  : 
I  vow,  the  conquered  shall  not  light  again  ! 
What  of  the  king  ? 

Wyatt.  His  majesty  is  silent, 

Gloomy  and  sad,  and  given  to  muttering  ; 
Flying  at  pleasures  with  an  eagerness 
That  crushes  out  the  dainty  soul  of  joy  : 
As  one  a  cup  of  rich,  untasted  wine 
Might  crack  with  furious  bacchanalian  haste, 
And  spill  its  fruity  treasures. 

Queen  A.  So  I  thought  : 

His  love  is  wrestling  with  an  agony, 
By  fancied  justice  thrust  upon  his  mind. 
When  through  this  fire  of  malice  I  have  passed  — 
Whose  purifying  ordeal  he  allows, 
Only  to  prove  the  temper  of  my  heart  — 
Look,  Wyatt,  look  to  see  my  enemies, 
Drossy  with  crime,  hurled  headlong  in  the  flame, 
To  show  the  baseness  of  their  earthy  souls  ! 
Kings  should  be  just. 

Wyatt.  Ay,  should  be  just. 

Queen  A.  How  now  ? 

Would  you  arraign  his  royal  qualities, 
Because  my  foes  have  led  his  mind  astray 
With  seeming  justice  ?     Ah  !  be  careful,  sir, 
Not  to  malign  him,  in  your  zeal  for  me  1 

Wyatt.     She    hugs    her   ruin.      (Aside.)      Mistress 
Seymour  says  — 

Queen    A.     Out,    wizard,    out !      Dare     you    to 

summon  up 

The  horrid  phantom  that  pursues  my  steps, 
And  ever  shadowy  flits  before  my  eyes, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  191 

Veiling  the  snn,  and  deepening  deepest  night  ? 

0  !  Wyatt,  Wyatt,  would  you  mock  me  too  ? 

0  !  would  you  rend  the  feeble  barrier 

That  hides  my  anguish  from  the  gaping  world, 

And  show  me  in  my  naked  wretchedness, 

Without  a  rag  of  pride  to  cover  me, 

For  prying  fools  to  carp  on  ?     Cruel  leech, 

To  probe  this  wound,  even  though  my  tortured  heart 

Might  work  salvation  out  of  agony  I 

Begone,  begone  ! 

Wyatt.  I  meant  not  — 

Queen  A.  I  forgive  you. 

Go,  go,  in  mercy  !     If  you  love  my  health, 
Never  again  recall  that  fearful  name  !       [Exit  WYATT.] 
'T  is  hard,  'tis  hard  !  —  but  it  must  be  endured. 
0  !  vanished  peace,  that  with  my  girlish  hours 
Shook  hands  and  parted,  as  they  proudly  strode 
Down  the  dark  paths  of  untried  womanhood  — 
Return,  return  !     Ah  !  couldst  thou  bring  again 
Those  pleasant  days,  when  at  the  source  of  life 
My  spirit  sat,  and  heard,  with  nature's  tones, 
The  blended  music  of  a  higher  life 
Mix  and  flow  on  in  one  grand  harmony  ; 
When  every  sense,  content  with  what  it  felt, 
Longed  not  for  action,  never-ending  action, 
That  once  embraced  makes  us  its  slaves  till  death. 
Death,  death  !    There  is  more  sweetness  in  that  name 
Than  I  e'er  knew  of.     Does  thy  pallid  hand 
Unite  the  two  extremes  of  human  life, 
Linking  our  earliest  with  our  latest  days, 
In  one  unbroken  circle  ?     Art  thou  she, 
The  meek-feced  peace  of  childhood,  changed  in  name, 
But  undistinguished  in  thy  quality, 


192  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Come  from  afar  to  lead  us  back  again 

From  where  we  started  ?     Ah  !  I  know  not  now, 

Nor  can  I  till  I  pass,  beyond  recall, 

The  narrow  lintel  of  the  voiceless  grave.  — 

0  God  !  0  God  !  I  am  weary  of  the  day  ! 

[Scene  closes.} 


SCENE    IV. 

Another  Room  in  the   Palace.     Enter  KING  HENRY  and  JANB 
SEYMOUR. 

King  Henry.    Poh  !  'tis  too  late  for  pity. 

Jane  Seymour.  Pity,  sir  ! 

I  feel  no  pity  for  her  wantonness  : 
'T  is  for  yourself,  so  wickedly  abused, 
So  unsuspecting  till  the  common  voice 
Thrust  its  belief  in  your  reluctant  ears. 
The  hand  of  justice  is  in  everything : 
How  strange  it  was  our  budding  love  put  forth 
Just  as  her  impious  crimes  had  reached  their  full  ! 
Showing  how  Heaven  may  visit  secret  guilt 
In  an  avenging  form  of  innocence, 
That  sadly  marvels  at  its  own  result. 

King  H.    Yes,  very  strange. 

Jane  S.  What  proof  can  be  produced  ? 

A  mind  so  subtle  in  committing  sin, 
Must  be  adept  in  masking  stratagems. 

King  H.    That's  Norfolk's  part.     His  grace  hat-: 

pledged  himself 

To  bring  more  evidence  before  the  court  — 
UncircumHtantial,  downright,  stubborn  proof— 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  193 

Than  it  will  hear.     And  let  him  look  to  it : 
For  if  his  charge  prove  slander  to  our  queen, 
And  she  escape,  untainted  in  her  fame, 
I  '11  hang  him  like  a  thief— by  Heaven,  I  will ! 

Jane   S.     Sweet  hypocrite  !     (Aside.)     But   if  his 
charge  be  proved  ? 

King  H.    Our  realm  has  laws  ;  too  much  we  honor 

them, 

To  stand  between  the  culprit  and  their  doom. 
Talk  not  of  this. 

Jane  S.  Here  comes  the  noble  duke, 

Sending  a  smile  before  his  onward  path 
To  ask  a  welcome. 

(Enter  Duke  of  NORFOLK.) 

Norfolk.  All  looks  fair,  my  liege. 

King  H.   Looks  foul,  I  say  !     Cannot  I  teach  you, 

sir, 

That  this  discovered  treachery  of  the  queen 
Irks  me  to  credit  ?     Is  it  not  enough 
That  the  dear  honor  of  my  father's  throne 
Is  sullied  in  the  eyes  of  Christendom, 
And  I  am  made  the  laughing-stock  of  time, 
Without  this  giggling  at  my  sorry  plight  ? 

Nor.     A   virtuous    mood !     (Aside.)     Pardon    the 

clownish  haste 

That  has  disturbed  your  majesty's  deep  grief. 
You  set  me  to  pursue  a  wily  chase  ; 
And  if  I  feel  the  huntsman's  eager  flush  — 
More  from  pursuit  than  wish  to  strike  rny  game  — 
The  heat  of  triumph  should  excuse  my  air. 

King  H.    Well,  well,  what  news  ? 

VOL.   I.  13 


194  ANNE    BOLEYN. 


So  ho  !  king  weathercock  I 

[Aside.] 

I  fear  't  is  too  much  for  your  majesty 
To  hear  the  worst  confirmed. 

King  H.  Ha  !  say  you  so  ? 

For  to  drift  on  upon  a  level  sea 
Of  settled  woe,  is  better  than  to  toss 
Between  the  heights  of  my  delusive  hopes 
And  the  deep  gulfs  of  bottomless  despair. 
Rest,  Norfolk,  rest  from  my  overwhelming  thoughts, 
Even  in  a  port  of  quiet  wretchedness, 
Would  be  a  pleasure  to  this  storm-tossed  soul. 

Nor.    1  'd  give  a  barony  for  one  free  laugh.  [Aside.] 
There  is  not  a  circumstance  nor  shade  of  proof, 
By  law  demanded  to  convict  the  queen, 
But  I  can  summon  to  outface  her  tongue. 
This  is  blunt  truth,  ungarbled  by  a  phrase 
To  smooth  its  meaning  in  a  dainty  ear  ; 
And  though  you  shrink,  your  royal  dignity 
Calls  out  for  vengeance  on  her  traitorous  head. 

King  H.    Be  well  prepared  :  your  life  hangs  by  a 
thread. 

Nor.    I  see  your  snares,  sceptred  duplicity  ; 
I  am  fairly  entered,  far  beyond  retreat  ; 
I  know  the  issue  is  her  death  or  mine. 
Thank  Heaven,  I  do  not  need  fear's  ragged  spur 
To  drive  me  onward  in  my  willing  course.        [Aside.] 
Trust  to  my  zeal  ;  I  hold  my  sovereign's  honor 
Above  the  selfish  dread  of  common  death. 

King  H.    What  of  this  spinnet-player  ? 

Nor.  Ah  !  the  knave  I 

He  wavered  sadly  since  his  first  confession  : 
Now  he  'd  confirm  the  paper  which  he  signed, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  195 

And  now  he  'd  suffer  death  ere  swear  to  it. 
When  strict  imprisonment  had  cowed  his  mind, 
I  by  persuasion  won  him  to  my  wish. 

King  H.    By  what  persuasion  ?     Make  no  prom 
ises  ; 
The  wretch  shall  hang. 

Nor.  0  !  merely  by  the  rack. 

King  H.    Most  delicate  inducement ! 

Nor.  Yes,  my  liege, 

It  oft  unclasps  the  rigid  jaws  of  guilt. 
The  pangs  of  death  have  many  a  time  disclosed 
The  murderer's  secret ;  and  the  rack  can  bring 
A  dying  anguish,  without  fear  of  death. 
'T  is  a  most  potent  questioner. 

Jane  S.  My  liege, 

Pray  come  away  ;  for  I  am  sick  at  heart, 
Hearing  details  so  awful.     Please,  your  grace, 
To  keep  such  horrors  for  your  private  thoughts. 
Come,  Henry,  come  ! 

King  H.  To  please  you,  love.     Adieu, 

Good  Norfolk  ;  slack  not  in  your  zealous  care. 

Nor.    Heaven  keep  your  majesties  ! 

Jane  S.  Pshaw  !  trifler. 

[Exeunt  KING  HENRY  and  JANE  SEYMOUR.] 

Nor.  "  Pshaw  !  " 

But  did  I  tickle  you,  my  demi-queen  ? 
So  delicate,  so  royal  in  your  tastes  ! 
Cannot  endure  the  thoughts  of  brutal  racks  ; 
And  yet  would  kill  a  queen  to  wear  her  shoes  ! 
'Sdeath  !  when  you  are  crowned,  our  manly  swords 

must  rust, 

Butchers  lose  traffic,  and 'your  tender  court 
Browse,  like  Assyria's  king,  on  bloodless  weeds  ;  — 


196  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Ay,  but  our  daggers  shall  be  kept  on  edge, 

To  stab  our  kind  !     Well,  you  are  happily  matched  : 

A  squeamish  king  who  circumvents  two  lives, 

To  urge  his  purpose  to  its  bloody  end, 

Vowing  that  justice  shall  have  one  of  them, 

And  a  meek  queen  who  shudders  at  the  means, 

Yet  at  the  end  grapples  with  furies'  claws. 

You  crocodiles  can  blubber  o'er  your  prey, 

If  a  stray  infant  should  fall  overboard, 

And  cry  that  drowning  is  a  sorry  thing, 

Ere  you  together  gorge  it !     What  a  life, 

So  comforting  to  conscience,  you  may  lead 

When  Hymen  yokes  you  !  — Damn  hypocrisy  ! 

(Enter  THOMAS  WYATT.) 

Wyatt.    So  say  I  too,  under  your  grace's  oath. 

Nor.    Ha  !  ha  !  Sir  Poet,  't  was  a  pious  oath. 

Wyatt.    Of  sure  fulfilment. 

Nor.  Pray  what  brings  you  here  ? 

Wyatt.    A  moth  to  light,  a  poet  to  a  prince ; 
Thus  is  it  ever.     I  would  see  the  king. 

Nor.    He  just  retired. 

Wyatt.  'T  is  but  a  small  affair  ; 

I  '11  come  again. 

Nor.  Can  I  not  aid  you,  sir  ? 

Wyatt.    I  merely  wished  to  see  a  prisoned  rogue  — 
One  fellow  Smeaton,  caged  for  stealing  geese, 
Or  some  such  matter.     Has  your  grace  a  pass  ? 
The  careless  knave  had  my  last  madrigal, 
To  set  for  music.     'T  is  my  only  copy  ; 
And  if  he  is  hanged,  my  immortality 
Loses  a  hope.     Now,  Reynard,  play  the  fool! 

[*<*.] 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  19*7 

Nor.    So,  ho  !  my  railer  at  hypocrisy, 
How  smooth  we  lie  !     (Aside.)    Confound  this  gosling 

thief! 

The  king  has  ordered  —  why,  I  cannot  say  — 
That  none,  except  the  Council,  shall  have  leave 
To  see  the  fellow. 

Wyatt.  Well,  there  is  little  lost. 

Nor.    0,  much,  much,  much  !     I  honor  poesy  ; 
And  vow  to  succor  your  brave  madrigal.— 
I  '11  make  especial  business  of  this  matter. 

Wyatt.    As  deep  as  hell !     (Aside.)     Nay,  trouble 

not  yourself ; 

Perchance  the  knave,  among  his  prison  griefs, 
Has  lost  remembrance  of  my  trifling  song. 

Nor.    I  will  refresh  him.    ;T  would  amaze  you,  sir, 
To  know  how  much  I  reverence  your  art. 
Each  genuine  poet,  in  each  poem,  forms 
What  neither  he  nor  any  other  man, 
Though  he  were  equal  in  capacity, 
Can  shape  again.     The  moods  of  poets'  minds 
Are,  like  the  colors  of  chameleons, 
Seen  in  the  same  particulars  but  once. 
That  combination  of  your  shifting  thoughts, 
Which  you  have  pictured  in  a  madrigal, 
Should  make  its  due  impression  on  our  time. 
I  would  not  see  your  chaplet  lose  a  leaf :  — 
Believe  me,  'tis  a  duty. 

Wyatt.  Shrewd  dissembler, 

With  what  a  relish  he  pursues  intrigues  !         {Aside,} 
I  thank  your  grace,  in  poesy's  sweet  name, 
For  this  regard.     Pray,  can  you  tell  me,  sir, 
Upon  what  charge  my  friend,  Sir  Henry  Norris, 
Will  be  arraigned  ? 


198  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Nor.  On  many  many,  sir. 

The  gravest,  I  believe,  is  robbing  goose-ponds :  — 
He  is  involved  with  Smeaton. 

Wyatt.  Ah!  indeed? 

'T  is  an  odd  charge  !     But  I  observe  of  late 
How  our  good  king  takes  the  most  famous  geese, 
This  realm  produces,  'neath  his  royal  wing. 
Adieu  !  your  grace.  [Going.} 

Nor.  Ho  !  scion  of  the  muse  ! 

I  have  a  little  scandal  for  your  ear. 

Wyatt.   For  mine,  your  grace  ?  [Returns.} 

Nor.  Yes  ;  't  is  a  trifling  thing,  — 

No  greater  in  my  eyes  than  songs  in  yours. 
They  say  you  read  too  many  madrigals 
In  the  attentive  hearing  of  the  queen. 
Look  to  it,  sir :  his  majesty  is  loth 
His  royal  consort  should  give  up  her  time 
To  so  much  poetry. 

Wyatt.  The  sneering  wretch  ! 

I  dare  not  brave  him,  for  her  highness'  sake.    [Aside.} 
An  idle  rurnor. 

Nor.  But  it  put  your  songs 

In  fearful  jeopardy.     The  king  nigh  swore 
To  hang  all  future  poems  by  the  neck, 
In  your  good  person.     He  hates  poesy. 
The  royal  opposition  on  this  point 
Is  stranger  than  the  patronage  of  geese. 

Wyatt.    'Sblood  !  I  must  burst,  if  I  remain  to  hear 
This  cynic's  gibes.     (Aside.)     Farewell!  once  more. 

Nor.  Remember, 

No  private  readings  to  her  majesty 
Of  the  lost  madrigal,  when  I  restore  it. 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  199 

Wyatt.    God  shield  the  queen  !  for  human  aid  is 
vain.      [Aside.]  [Exeunt  severally.] 


SCENE    V. 

The  Queen  's  Apartments  in  the  Palace.    A  table  spr 

ANNE,  Maids,  and  Attendants,  at  the  back  of  the  scene. 

Queen  Anne.    (Advancing.)    Ah,   me!    what  fearful 

difference  'tis,  to  view 
The  self-same  object  unattained,  and  won  ! 
For  memories  are  the  shadows  of  our  hopes, 
That  ever  lengthen  as  our  day  declines, 
Till  death's  oblivion  wraps  them  both  in  night. 
When,  from  the  lowly  vale  of  common  life, 
Ambition  points  us  to  the  sunny  tops 
Of  the  great  hills  of  power,  whose  even  sides, 
Ascending  smoothly  through  the  golden  haze, 
Appear  like  stepping-stones  from  earth  to  heaven  — 
Ah  !  who  could  tell  the  peril  of  the  road 
That  must  be  braved  to  reach  their  eminence  ? 
What  stony  paths  —  what  thorny  barriers  — 
What  humble  crawling  under  threatening  rocks  — 
What  dizzy  ledges,  wooing  nerveless  fear 
To  swift  forgetfulness  —  what  hungry  chasms, 
That  picture  death  within  their  roaring  jaws, 
And  stagger  reason  on  his  solid  throne  — 
Must  be  o'erpassed,  ere  on  the  toppling  heights, 
Amidst  the  region  of  perpetual  storms, 
We  stand  alone  in  chill  supremacy  ! 

(Enter  THOMAS  WYATT.) 
Quick,  Wyatt,  quick  !  have  my  poor  friends  a  hope  ? 


200  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Wijatt.    But  in  the  mercy  of  your  enemies, 
Or  the  most  tardy  justice  of  the  king. 

Queen  A.    Is  this  your  zeal  ?     0,  apathetic  man  ! 
Can  you  see  Rochford,  noble,  loyal  Rochford  — 
Your  friend,  your  playmate  —  one  who  ever  bore 
His  gathering  honors  with  such  humbleness 
That  my  hot  pride  has  chid  him  —  can  you  see 
George  Boleyn  pining  in  a  dreary  cell, 
While  May's  warm  sunshine  fills  the  universe  ? 
Bethink  you,  Wyatt,  of  those  faithful  men, 
Weston,  and  Brereton,  and  Hemy  Norris, 
Whose  days,  like  fetters,  gall  their  manly  souls, 
In  the  cramped  limits  of  a  prison-house, 
While  you  are  slack  to  free  them  ! 

Wyatt.  Gracious  Heaven  !  — 

Queen  A.   Deeds  would  be  better,  sir,  than  windy 

oaths. 

Lend  me  your  manhood  for  a  little  day, 
And,  by  my  soul,  I  '11  breach  their  prison  doors, 
Or  light  a  blaze  in  England  that  shall  scare 
These  skulking  enemies  of  theirs  and  mine 
Into  a  frenzy !     Heaven  can  testify 
How  much  it  grieves  me  that  their  doleful  fate 
Seems  woven  with  the  tissue  of  my  own  ! 
For,  were  it  not,  their  wrongs  would  muster  friends, 
And  Heaven  would"  launch  an  angry  squadron  down 
To  succor  virtue  such  as  they  possess. 
But  I  —  0,  God  !  I  stand  here  all  alone, 
Shunned  by  mankind,  and  tossed  by  careless  chance 
To  glut  the  appetite  of  enmity  — 
A  helpless  woman,  full  of  wrongs  and  grief, 
With  nothing  left  me  but  the  conscious  power 
By  which  the  guiltless  bear  their  martyrdom  ! 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  201 

Wyatt.    0,  woful  day  ! 

Queen  A.  Have  you  but  vain  regrets  ? 

Wyatt.    Hear  rne,  your  highness. 

Queen  A.  Words,  and  nothing  more  ! 

Has  innocence  no  power?  has  justice  fled 
The  side  of  right  ?  or  is  it  mere  romance, 
To  prate  with  poets  of  a  heavenly  might 
That  nerves  the  weakness  of  a  righteous  cause  ? 
Fie  !  dreamer,  fie  ! 

Wyatt.  I  ask  you  not  to  laud 

My  wakeful  labor,  day  and  night  bestowed, 
Without  a  thought  of  safety  for  myself, 
Upon  this  hopeless  matter ;  all  I  ask 
Is  thankless  justice  for  a  pure  intent. 
I  grant  my  efforts  were  of  no  avail  — 
I  grant  some  other  and  more  skilful  hand 
Might  have  achieved  a  work  beyond  my  power ; 
But  yet,  believe,  all  intellectual  strength, 
All  hidden  cunning,  and  all  bold  resource, 
That  nature  gave  me,  were  employed  in  vain 
Ere  I  despaired. 

Queen  A.  What  was  this  mighty  work? 

Had  you  the  labor  of  a  Hercules, 
That  you  so  groan  ?     Upon  my  life,  I  think 
This  wondrous  malady  will  heal  itself 
Without  your  aid.  —  Shake  not  your  solemn  head. 
The  king  still  loves  me  :  —  I  have  faith  in  love. 

Wyatt.    Ila !    have  you  faith  ?   then  see  my  very 

heart. 

My  memory  reaches  not  that  early  day 
When  I  first  loved  you.     Since  remembrance  threw 
The  bright  reflections  of  my  childish  thoughts 
Into  the  gloom  of  manhood's  troubled  hours, 


202  ANNE    BOI.EYN. 

There  is  not  a  gleam,  however  remote  and  dim. 
But  owes  its  splendor  to  my  love  for  you  ; 
There  is  not  a  hope  — 

Queen  A.  Hold,  traitor,  on  your  life  ! 

Are  you  conspiring  with  my  subtle  foes  ? 
My  maids  observe  us.  —  Would  you  ruin  me  ? 
Is  my  last  friend  corrupted  ?     Dare  you,  sir, 
Prattle  this  nonsense  to  your  queen  ?     0,  base  I 
Thus  to  presume  on  my  defencelessness ; 
Implying  frailty  which,  a  week  ago, 
You  had  better  died  than  barely  hinted  at ! 

Wyatt.    You  thought  me  lukewarm. 

Queen  A.  No  ;  I  only  meant 

To  whet  the  edge  of  blunted  zeal.          [ jVbi«e  without  ] 

Wyatt.  How  now  ? 

Prophetic  fear  ! 

(Enter  Duke  of  NORFOLK,  Duke  of  SUFFOLK,  and  other  Lords  of 
the  Council,  with  Sir  WILLIAM  KINGSTON  and  GUARD.) 

Queen  A.  Good  welcome,  gentlemen  ! 

Bear  you  a  message  from  his  majesty  ? 

[A  long  pause. ] 
What,  not  a  word  ? 

Suffolk.  We  do. 

Queen  A.  Do  what,  your  grace  ? 

Suf.    Bear  you  a  message  from  the  king. 

Queen  A.  Ha!  ha!        [Laughing.] 

Your  answer  lagged  so  far  behind  my  query, 
As  quite  to  rupture  sense. 

Norfolk.  Come,  Suffolk,  come  ; 

No  faltering  now  !      [Apart  to  SUFFOLK.] 

Suf.  The  king  has  ordered  us 

To  see  the  person  of  her  majesty 
Placed  in  your  hands,  Sir  William,  until  he 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  203 

Makes  such  disposure  of  her  as  may  suit 
His  further  pleasure. 

Queen  A.  Back,  ye  urgent  tears  ; 

I  '11  never  pay  your  tribute  to  my  foes  !     [Aside.] 
If  'tis  the  pleasure  of  his  majesty 
To  change  my  present  lodgings  for  the  Tower, 
Like  a  true  subject,  I  obey. 

Wyatt.  Brave,  brave ! 

Nature  created  thee  from  royal  clay  !     [Aside.'} 

Kingston.    I  will  await  your  highness'  preparation 

Queen  A.    I  need  none,  sir. 

Nor.  Away,  away,  Sir  William  ! 

Queen  A.   Well  said,  good  uncle. 

[Exeunt  all  but  WYATT.] 

Wyatt.  Now,  were  I  a  beast, 

And  Norfolk  but  another,  I  would  tear 
The  bitter  heart  out  of  his  spiteful  breast ! 
But  as  a  man  —  0,  as  a  gentleman, 
A  Christian  gentleman  —  I  thank  his  grace 
That  he  allows  my  littleness  to  crawl 
'Neath  God's  own  light,  and  fret  my  weary  soul 
With  gazing  on  his  huge  monstrosity  ! 
What   next  ?    what   next  ?  —  Divorce  !      And   then, 

poor  queen, 

She  '11  sit  her  down,  like  injured  Katharine, 
And  feed  her  heart  with  sorrow,  till  the  bane 
Of  cankering  grief  has  poisoned  every  spring 
That  pulses  life  along  her  shattered  frame  ; 
And  then  she  '11  lapse,  by  scarce  perceived  degrees, 
Into  her  grave  ;  and  then  —  why,  then  the  world 
Will  roar  and  scramble  o'er  her  resting-place, 
And  play  the  same  stale  antics  which  she  saw, 
And  dash  its  brimming  tides  of  ruddy  life 


204  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Across  her  tomb,  without  a  care  for  her.  — 
0,  should  we  laugh  or  weep  at  human  fate  ? 
There  goes  to  shame  the  only  mortal  thing 
I  ever  loved,  with  all  a  poet's  love, 
And  I  ask  that,  in  mockery  of  myself!     [Weeps.] 

[Scene  closes.] 


SCENE   VI. 

Before  the  Gate  of  the  Tower.  Enter  QUEEN  ANNE,  in  custody  of 
Sir  WILLIAM  KINGSTON  and  GUARD,  Duke  of  NORFOLK,  Duke 
of  SUFFOLK,  and  Lords  of  the  Council. 

Queen  Anne.   Pause  here  a  moment. 

Norfolk.  Tut,  tut !  move  along ! 

Queen  A.   Did  you   not,    sir,   insult  your  queen 

enough, 

Before  the  Council,  with  unmanly  taunts 
And  slanders,  rivalled  in  their  gross  excess 
But  by  the  words  in  which  you  uttered  them, 
Without  disgracing  thus  your  victory  ? 

Nor.    It  ill  beseems  my  noted  chastity 
To  hold  discourse  with  ladies  of  your  stamp 
Stop,  if  you  list ;  I  'd  rather  grant  your  wish 
Than  parley  with  you. 

Queen  A.  Aid  me,  gracious  Lord, 

To  bear  unmurmuring  !     (Aside.)    Listen,  gentlemen. 
'T  is  the  last  time,  perchance,  that  I  may  stand 
Beneath  the  open  blessings  of  the  sky ; 
And  here,  before  the  majesty  of  heaven, 
Gazing  unshaken  in  the  face  of  God, 
I  solemnly  avow  these  horrid  crimes, 
With  which  my  enemies  have  vested  me, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  205 

To  be  most  foul  and  baseless  calumnies  ;  — 
Or  God  forsake  me  in  my  strictest  need  ! 

Nor.    What  monstrous  perjury  !     I  dare  not  hear 
This  woman's  self-damnation.  [Going.] 

Suffolk.  Come,  my  lords  ; 

Our  part  is  done.  [Exit  with  NORFOLK  and  the  Lords.'] 

Queen  A.  Their  scorn  foreshows  my  doom  : 

I  am  convicted  ere  the  court  be  met. 
Think  you  I  shall  have  justice  ? 

Kingston.  Without  doubt : 

The  poorest  subject  of  the  king  has  that. 

Queen  A.   Ha  !  ha !  poor  man  !    (Laughing.)    Loyal 

credulity ! 

0,  yes,  at  last  —  in  heaven.     Where  go  I,  sir?  — 
Into  a  dungeon  ? 

Kings.  No,  your  majesty  ; 

You  lie  in  the  state  chambers. 

Queen  A.  In  which  rooms  ? 

Kings.    Where   you  were  lodged   on   Coronation- 
Day. 

Queen  A.    This  is  too  cruel ! 

Kings.  Is  splendor  cruelty  ? 

Queen  A.    0,  you  are  gracious  !     They  are  far  too 

good 

For  such  a  wretch  —  so  abject,  so  forlorn, 
A  prisoned  felon  ;  —  were  it  not  that  they 
Will  taunt  my  memory  with  a  pleasant  dream, 
That  there  once  practised  on  my  facile  hopes, 
While  reason  slept.     Alas,  alas,  for  me  I 
Time,  like  a  mocking  showman,  turns  the  picture, 
To  teach  on  what  coarse  stuff'  my  fancy  wrought. 

Kings.  Time  may  relent,  and  make  all  well  ere  long. 
Your  slight  constraint  shall  not  seem  bondage  to  you. 


206  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Queen  A.    It  matters  not,  if  we  are  prisoners, 
Whether  our  walls  be  marked  by  feet  or  miles  : 
I  may  be  cramped  and  tethered  in  my  will, 
While  my  clay  roams  the  starry  universe  ;  — 
What  but  free  will  is  freedom  ? 

Kings.  Shall  we  enter  ? 

Queen  A.    Your  pardon,  sir,  if  I  have  wearied  you 
With  my  complaints.     But  you  have  heard  to-day 
Tilings  that  might  break  a  prouder  heart  than  mine. 
I  do  confess,  my  slanderers  have  wrought 
More  on  my  spirits  than  I  once  believed 
Mere  malice  could.  —  Was  it  not  vile  ? 

Kings.    Poor  queen,  poor  queen  !     (Aside.)     I  can 
not  judge,  your  highness. 

Queen  A.    I  should  not  ask  you  to  o'erstep  discre 
tion. 
Where  is  the  king  ? 

Kings.  At  Whitehall,  I  believe. 

Queen  A.    Will  you  convey  his  majesty  a  note? 

Kings.    I  cannot. 

Queen  A.  Cannot!  but  a  message,  then? 

Tell  him  - 

Kings.         Indeed,  I  dare  not. 

Queen  A.  Then,  good  sir, 

Pray  bear  a  letter  to  the  Chancellor. 

Kings.    I  am  prohibited. 

Queen  A.  Are  you  a  tool  ? 

Kings.   Ay,  but  a  feeling  one. 

Queen  A.  Forgive  me,  pray  I 

Sir,  you  are  kind,  most  kind !     My  hasty  spleen 
Must  be  abated  to  my  present  state. 
Come,  let  us  in.     I  may  be  dull,  perchance ; 
But,  as  I  live,  I  cannot  realize 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  207 

That  he,  the  father  of  my  little  child, 

Could  so  far  banish  all  regard  for  me 

As  to  afflict  me  with  deliberate  wrong. 

No,  no  ;  I  have  been  schooled  to  fearful  thoughts, 

But  this,  this  cannot  enter      Come,  set  on  ! 

r  Exeunt  into  the  Tower."] 


208  ANNE    BOLEYN. 


ACT     V. 

SCENE  I.     A  Room  in  Whitehall  Palace.     K!IXG  HENRY  and 
JANE  SEYMOUR. 

Jane  Seymour.    NAY,  my  sweet  Henry,  shrink  not 

for  a  thought. 

Wisdom  is  Janus-faced,  and  boldly  looks 
Not  only  at  dead  acts  of  bygone  times, 
But,  in  the  very  front  of  coming  years, 
Stands  forth,  a  prophet,  to  foretell  events. 
Why  should  we  dream  upon  the  harmless  past, 
If  not  to  shape  the  future  of  our  lives 
By  its  dear-purchased  knowledge  ? 

King  Henry.  True  enough. 

Jane  S.    See  then  what  follows.      Should  Queen 

Anne  die, 

And  no  male  issue  bless  your  majesty, 
Elizabeth,  your  so-called  daughter,  reigns.  — 
So-called,  I  say  ;  for  where  is  your  warranty 
To  deem  her  truer  than  her  faithless  dam  ? 

King  H.    Right,  by  my  soul  I     I  '11  disinherit  her  ; 
My  Parliament  shall  set  her  claim  aside  : 
We  '11  have  no  bastards  on  our  English  throne, 
To  mock  our  justice. 

Jane  S.  ,  Ah  !  the  Parliament ! 

But  what  it  does,  it  can  undo  again. 

King  H.     Ay,    ay ;    't  were   safer   to  divorce  the 
queen, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  209 

And  so,  as  in  our  daughter  Mary's  case, 
Cut  off  Elizabeth. 

Jane  S.  'T  will  trouble  you, 

For  many  a  weary  day,  if  the  bold  queen 
Should  stand  up  stiffly  for  her  royal  rights, 
Nor  yield  to  you. 

King  H.    Nor  yield  ?  —  'ods  wounds  !  she  shall ! 
I  '11  have  each  tittle  of  my  liberty, 
Ere  we  break  quits.     Why,  it  were  monstrous,  base, 
To  offer  our  good  subjects  her  vile  sprout 
By  way  of  queen  !     'T  was  rumored,  at  her  birth, 
That  Bess  was  not  my  own. 

(Enter  Duke  of  NORFOLK.) 

In  good  time,  Norfolk  — 
How  proceeds  our  cause  ? 

Norfolk.  Slowly,  my  liege. 

•    King  H.    Push  on,  push  on  ! 

Nor.  Ha,  ha  !  my  royal  hound, 

Do  you  scent  blood  at  last  ?  (Aside.)     Mark  Smeaton 

now 

Will  swear  to  anything  beneath  the  moon  ; 
But  all  the  others  are  intractable. 
When  of  their  common  guilt  we  question  them, 
Rochford  but  gives  a  melancholy  smile  ; 
Weston  stares  at  us  with  his  great  bright  eyes, 
As  if  he  doubted  of  our  sanity ; 
Brereton,  scowling,  fumbles  for  his  sword ; 
And  Henry  Norris  has  gone  virtue-mad : 
He  raves  and  swears  about  his  innocence, 
And  vows  he  never  will  accuse  the  queen, 
Whom  in  his  conscience  he  believes  most  pure. 

King  H.    Hang  him  up,  hang  him  'up,  then  ! 

VOL.  i.  14 


210  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Nor.  Wonderful ! 

lie  grows  blood-thirsty.     'T  was  but  yesterday 
He  saved  a  fly  from  drowning-,  and  so  talked, 
And  moralized  so  sweetly  on  this  theme, 
As  nigh  re-drowned  the  insect  in  his  tears.     [Aside.] 
Yes  ;  but  before  he  hangs,  could  we  succeed 
In  throwing  him,  or  one  of  gentle  blood, 
Into  the  balance  'gainst  her  majesty, 
;T  would  show  her  light  as  air. 

Jane  S.  You  doubt  her  guilt  ? 

-ZVbr.    Not  I,  my  lady  ;  but  opinion  weighs 
No  atom  in  the  jealous  scales  of  law. 

King  H.    We  '11  suit  the  triers  to  the  evidence. 
She  is  false,  without  debate  ;  then  wherefore,  sir, 
Should  we  be  nice  about  the  means  we  use  ? 
A  band  of  angels,  sworn  upon  our  side, 
Could  not  increase  her  guilt. 

Nor.  Doubtless,  my  liege  ; 

But  't  would  convict  her  to  the  common  rnind  : 
For,  as  we  stand,  this  base-born,  wavering  groom 
Is  our  sole  witness  ;  and  we  lose  respect 
By  such  a  tottering  basis  to  our  cause. 
The  people  — 

King  H.         Furies  seize  them,  root  and  branch 
Here  comes  that  bugbear  of  a  timid  court, 
That  noisy  nothing,  to  assail  our  ears  ! 
Sir,  I  more  reverence  a  flock  of  geese  — 
Being  a  Roman  in  that  one  idea  — 
Than  all  the  banded  folly  of  the  earth. 
Is  there  more  wisdom  in  a  million  fools 
Than  one  alone  ?     Shall  folly  gain  respect 
By  bare  addition  ? 

Jane  S.  Please  your  majesty, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  211 

His  grace  but  cares  for  your  committed  honor 
In  this  regard. 

King  H.         I  know  his  loyalty  : 
But  shall  a  monarch  answer  to  a  mob 
For  private  deeds  ?     Lord,  save  their  silliness  ! 
'T  is  scarce  a  twelvemonth  since  they  howled  at  us, 
"  We  '11  have  no  Nanny  Boleyn  for  our  queen  !  " 
And  now  they  saint  her  !     Norfolk,  look  at  them 
As  on  a  crowd  of  human  weathercocks, 
That  ever  point  right  in  the  teeth  of  power, 
Howe'er  it  veer.     Join  me  anon,  your  grace  ; 
I  fain  would  hit  upon  some  speedy  scheme 
That  may  annul  my  marriage  with  the  queen. 
Sweetheart,  come  walk. 

Nor.  I  will  attend  your  highness. 

[Exeunt  KING  HENRY  and  JANE  SEYMOUR.] 
So  all  this  pother,  all  this  hanging  men, 
Divorcing  wives,  and  chopping  off  of  heads, 
Is  for  mere  happiness  — •  an  endless  chase  ! 
As  if  a  man,  so  stuffed  with  memories 
Of  the  dark  path  that  led  him  to  his  hopes, 
Could  taste  enjoyment  if  he  reached  his  wish  ! 
Good  Lord,  a  king  may  be  a  royal  fool  ! 
This  outdoes  alchemy.  —  I'd  rather  fight 
'Gainst  nature  for  the  boon  of  endless  life, 
And  hope  to  turn  God's  purpose  upside  down  — 
Chase  the  horizon  till  I  found  the  spot 
Where  heaven  meets  earth,  and,  with  that  blissful 

kiss, 

Rains  joy  celestial  on  the  duller  land  — 
Run  down  the  rainbow  to  the  golden  spring 
Of  its  bright  arch  —  believe  a  poet's  dream  — 
Do  any  shallow  thing,  but  set  sound  wits 


212  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Upon  a  chase  for  phantom  happiness. 
Ha,   ha !    king   motley !      Give   me   power,    power, 
power  !  [Exit.] 


SCENE  II. 

The  State  Apartments  in  the  Tower.     QUEEN  ANNE  alone. 

Queen  Anne.   Ye  rugged  walls,  how  often  have  ye 

heard 

The  weary  moans  of  prisoned  innocence, 
By  bondage  plundered  of  its  cheerful  spirit, 
Broken  in  will,  bankrupt  in  energy ; 
And  when  at  last  thought  has  so  preyed  on  thought 
As  to  debase  the  judgment's  faculty, 
Robbed  of  that  God-sustaining  power  of  right 
Which  lifts  the  soul  above  calamity  ! 

0  woe  !  0  woe  !  shall  I  become  at  length 
A  mental  wreck,  a  chaos  of  despair, 

With  scarcely  strength  in  my  enervate  mind 

To  see  the  conscience-drawn  dividing  line 

That  marks  the  boundary  between  right  and  wrong  ? 

Alas  !  I  fear  it ;  for  I  cannot  tell 

What  high  prerogative,  that  once  was  mine, 

1  would  not  barter  for  mere  liberty. 

(Enter,  behind,  LADY  BOLEYN  and  MRS.  COSYNS.) 

Lady  Boleyn.    Still  lost  in  thoughts. 

Mrs.  Cosyns.  I  '11  warrant  them  not  good. 

Lady  B.    Then  stand  aside.     If  she  should  utter 

aught, 
Above  a  whisper,  we  can  catch  its  sense. 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  213 

Mrs.  C.    Then  to  his  grace,  and  so  unto  the  king. 
Good  luck  !  my  lady,  it  is  merry,  this, 
To  be  familiar  with  their  majesties  — 
To  be  the  very  spirit  of  the  words 
That  go  between  them. 

Lady  B.  Hush  !  the  queen  begins. 

Queen  A.   This  awful  pause  —  this  quivering  of  the 

beam 

That  balances  my  hesitating  fate  — 
This  watchful  agony  of  rigid  sense, 
Bending  all  faculties  in  one  fixed  stare, 
That  hangs  upon  the  dial  of  events, 
And  counts  the  passing  moments,  without  power 
To  urge  or  slacken  their  relentless  course  — 
Would  make  a  faith  in  settled  destiny 
Far  preferable  to  chance.     Then  stolid  force 
Might  brazen  out  the  frowns  of  hopeless  fate, 
And  learn  to  suffer  what  it  could  not  change. 
But,  0,  the  thought  that  we,  the  rulers  born 
Of  time  and  fortune  and  opposed  events, 
Can  be  so  meshed  in  outward  circumstance 
As  to  lose  influence  o'er  our  very  lives, 
Gives  to  adversity  its  bitterest  pangs, 
And  takes  from  will  its  living  soul  of  hope  ! 

Lady  B.    That 's  rare  philosophy,  I  question  not, 
But  it  is  bad  religion. 

Mrs.  G.  Terrible! 

Queen  A.    Avenging  Heaven,  and  I  deserve  it  all ! 

Lady  B.    That  7s  broad  confession. 

Mrs.  G.  Shameless  !     How  she  dared 

The  wrath  of  Heaven,  in  her  stout  impudence  ! 

Queen  A.    Yes,  I  deserve  it ;  but  'tis  double  pain, 
To  feel  the  chastisements  of  angry  Heaven 


214  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Meted  to  me  in  seeming  punishment 
For  that  whereof  I  am  guiltless. 

Lady  B.  Heard  you  that  ? 

Mrs.  G.    Nay,  I  'in  a  little  deaf. 
Queen  A.  0  Wolsey,  Wolsey  1 

I,  whose  ambitious  footstep  thrust  aside 
Your  tottering  age  — I,  who  with  crafty  toil 
Climbed  to  the  seat  of  patient  Katharine  — 
Feel  every  pang  with  which  I  tortured  you  ! 
My  power  is  gone  ;  another  cunning  maid 
Plays  o'er  my  part  of  heartless  treachery. 
0   More   and    Fisher  —  blood,   blood  !  —  save    my 

wits  !  — 

If  fate  like  theirs  should  close  my  history, 
To  make  Heaven's  doom  complete  !     Why  shrink  at 

that  ? 

For  't  is  but  one,  among  a  thousand  ways, 
Of  stepping  from  the  world.     And  what  were  life, 
Declining  by  degrees  of  misery 
To  chill  oblivion  ?  —  Queen  of  yesterday  — 
The  rabble's  pity  —  an  old  doting  crone, 
That    some    fool's    grandsire,     "  Marry,    knew    as 

queen  I  " 

Rattling  her  toothless  jaws  in  silly  prate 
About  herself —  "  And  how  they  crowned  her  once, 
With  a  great  crown  all  full  of  shining  stones  ; 
And  what  brave  velvet  farthingales  she  wore  ; 
And  how  she  reigned ;  and,  well-a-day,  how  fell !  " 
Pah  !  it  sets  death  a-laughing.     Gracious  Heaven, 
But  grant  my  sinfulness  one  little  prayer  — 
'T  is  all  I  ask  —  drive  on  the  lagging  days, 
Arid  bring  this  matter  to  its  fated  end ; 


ANNE    BOLEYN. 


215 


For  there  are  seeds  of  madness  in  my  grief 
That  must  o'ertop  my  reason  I 

(LADY  BOLEYN  and  MRS.  COSYNS  advance,) 

Mrs.  G.  Please  you,  lady. 

[To  QUEEN  ANNE.] 

Lady  B.    Your  majesty. 

Mrs.  G.  She  hears  us  not. 

Queen  A.  Well,  well ! 

But  Rochford,  ay,  and  all  my  noble  friends, 
Crowded  together  in  a  general  doom  ; 
As  if  my  enemies  had  sworn  to  leave 
No  vestige  of  me.     Bitter,  bitter  hate  ! 
My  father  next  — 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  please  you,  he  is  well. 

Queen  A.    Who  spoke  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Your  servant. 

Queen  A.  Service  without  love. 

Lady  B.    You  wrong  her  much. 

Queen  A.  You  too,  false  kinswoman  ? 

Lady  B.    Marry,   and   if  your   highness  had  not 

held 

Such  high  opinion  of  familiar  friends, 
You  'd  ne'er  been  here.     ?T  is  a  good  worldly  rule, 
As  treachery  harms  more  than  enmity, 
To  tell  no  tales  but  what  we  tell  our  foes. 

Queen  A.    Deep  in  the  world,  but  shallow  in  the 

heart. 
What  brings  you  here  ? 

Lady  B.  The  welfare  of  yourself, 

And  the  deliverance  of  your  noble  brother, 
With  all  his  prisoned  friends. 


216  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Queen  A.  When  owls  can  sing, 

I  '11  listen,  cousin. 

Lady  B.  Scold,  but  credit  me. 

Queen  A.    What  is  the   price  ?     If  it  involve  my 

life, 

I  '11  coin  my  heart's  blood,  to  the  utmost  drop, 
But  I  will  pay  it. 

Lady  B.  'T  is  that  you  agree 

To  offer  no  obstruction  to  the  king 
In  his  proposed  divorce. 

Queen  A.  Dare  you  insult  - 

Nay,  nay,  forgive  my  haste.     Is  it  the  king 
Who  wills  his  daughter's  shame  ?  who  barters  life 
On  terms  that  blacken  mercy's  reverend  hand, 
And  sink  her  calling  to  mere  brokery  ? 
Is  this  divorce  his  wish  ? 

Mrs.  C.  It  is,  your  highness  ; 

I  had  it  from  his  lips. 

Lady  B.  'T  will  but  oppose, 

And  not  defeat  his  plan,  if  you  refuse. 
Denial  carries  death  to  all  ;  when  you, 
By  bare  concession,  gain  a  pregnant  hope. 

Queen  A.    Hope,    hope   for   me !     0    God,    what 

mockery  !  — 

I  wish  for  nothing.     Show  me,  beyond  doubt, 
That  't  is  the  king's  command,  and  I  will  yield. 

Mrs.  G.    A  wise  conclusion. 

Queen  A.  Spare  your  comments,  madam  • 

My  duty  tutors  better  than  your  tongue. 
The  very  vileness  of  this  proffered  trade 
Gives  it  the  lie.     0,  'tis  far  past  belief, 
To  deem  a  father  so  unnatural : 
Sure  't  is  but  trial  of  my  patient  love 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  217 

The  king  intends. —  Why,  glimmering  hopes  seem 

born 

From  the  sheer  blackness  of  surrounding  things, 
Like  little  stars  at  midnight.     [Aside.] 

Mrs.  G.  Bless  my  soul, 

Her  highness  smiles  ! 

Queen  A.  Why  not  ? 

Lady  B.  Be  still,  you  fool ! 

Her  subtle  mind  is  twisting  in  a  net 
Of  its  own  flimsy  thoughts.      [Apart  to  MRS.  COSYNS.] 

Mrs.  G.  I  am  not  your  wench  ! 

What  the  king  orders  me,  I  will  perform, 
Though  all  the  Lady  Boleyns  in  the  land 
Cry'"  Fool,  and  fool !  7;  [Apart  to  LADY  BOLEYN.] 

If  it  would  please  your  highness, 
Now,  while  this  candid  mood  possesses  you, 
To  make  confession  to  us  of  the  crimes 
For  which  you  suffer  ;  and  so  spare  the  king  — 

Lady  B.   The  loose-tongued  idiot !     [Aside.] 

Queen  A.  Out !  you  heartless  wretch  ! 

Are  you  a  woman  ?     Have  you  borne  a  child  ? 
And  would  you  snatch  it  from  your  wolfish  breast, 
To  stamp  the  bastard  on  its  baby  brow  ? 

Mrs.  G.    I  have  no  child. 

Queen  A.  Heaven  keep  you  barren,  then, 

You  shameless  slanderer  of  your  mother's  sex  ! 
JDare  you  to  traffic  for  my  chastity — • 
The  natural  patent  of  all  womanhood  — 
That  more  becomes  my  naked  innocence 
Than  the  great  ring  of  jewelled  royalty  ? 
0  !  had  I  lost  it,  I  would  barter  crown, 
And  queenly  dignity  —  yea,  life  itself — 
To  wear  it  but  one  hour  of  agony, 


218  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Then  hand  it  spotless  to  posterity. 

Fie  !  you  are  rank,  if  you  have  never  felt 

Your  sex's  instinct ! 

Mrs.  G.  Lady,  let  us  go  : 

Her  majesty  so  storms  — 

Lady  B.  Yes,  slink  away, 

You  wretched  marplot !      [Apart  to  MRS.  COSYNS.] 

Queen  A.  Get  to  your  prayers  —  go  ! 

Send  to  your  heart  each  drop  of  modest  blood, 
That  ever  mustered  in  your  virgin  cheeks, 
At  wanton  thoughts,  to  wash  away  this  shame ! 

Mrs.  G.    Come,  come  ;  she  '11  rail  again. 

[Exit  with  LADY  BOLEYN.] 

Queen  A.  This  killing  doubt ! 

What  can  it  mean  ?  — where  am  I  ?  —  is  it  real  ? 
For  I  have  read  how  some  have  seemingly 
Passed  ages  in  a  dream ;  have  died  and  risen  ; 
Have  wandered  on  through  shadows  limitless, 
And  passed  the  radiant  gates  of  Paradise, 
To  dwell  for  days  unnumbered  with  the  Saints  ; 
Have  woke  at  last,  and  found  the  blazing  sun, 
That  shaped  the  fancies  of  their  lengthened  vision, 
Just  peeping  from  the  east.     Is  life  a  dream  ? 
Is  time  a  mere  illusion  of  the  mind  ? 
And  shall  we  waken  from  our  restless  sleep, 
To  see  the  glory-beaming  face  of  God 
Smile  in  our  eyes  a  summons  to  that  life 
Where  all  is  real  ?     What  to  my  endless  soul 
Is  this  flat  pageantry  of  days  and  years  ? 
Events,  not  hours,  are  measurers  of  our  lives, 
And  I  in  deeds  have  far  outlived  my  term  ; 
While  sorrows,  heavier  than  three-score  and  ten 
May  often  totter  under,  bow  my  head, 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  219 

That  only  needs  the  hoary  badge  of  time 

To  make  old  age  complete.     Why  should  I  stand 

And  dally  thus  with  my  kind  landlord,  Death, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  his  narrow  house, 

While  all  without  is  dark  and  shelterless, 

And  all  so  bright  within  ?     Why  fear  to  leave 

The  fickle  favors  that  mankind  bestow, 

For  the  sure  bounties  of  Omnipotence  ? 

0  God,  I  know  not !  but  my  startled  heart 

Rises  in  loud  rebellion  at  the  hint 

Of  that  chill  power  whose  torpid  tyranny 

Shall  still  its  play  forever.     Love,  fame,  power  — 

Ay,  all,  all,  everything,  the  uttermost !  — 

Have  vanished  in  the  shadow  of  my  wrongs  ; 

And  yet  I  gripe  life's  load  of  misery, 

As  if  there  were  a  hope  beyond  my  loss  !          [Exit.] 


SCENE  III. 

The  Gate  of  the  Tower,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  Citizens, 
endeavoring  to  enter,  who  are  kept  bade  by  a  guard  of  men-at- 
arms.  Enter,  from  the  Tower,  FIRST  CITIZEN. 

Citizens.    What  news,  what  news  ? 

First  Citizen.  What  news  can  you  expect  ? 

Second  Citizen.    The  queen's  deliverance. 

First  C.  Nonsense  !  where  the  king 

Is  chief  accuser  ? 

Third  Citizen.    Ay ;  but  justice,  sir. 

First   C.    Speak   riot   so   loud ;    the   lords    might 

overhear, 

And  lose  their  loyalty. 
*   Third  C.  What  mean  you,  friend  ? 


220  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

First  C.    Her   highness   is   prejudged,  and,  save 

in  form, 
Doomed  ere  her  cause  be  heard. 

Second  C.  Made  she  defence  ? 

First  G.    0  yes,  most  eloquent  and  strongly  knit : 
Beauty  and  truth  came  hand  in  hand  together, 
To  breathe  their  essence  in  each  modest  word. — 
But  what  avails  an  angel's  purity 
Where  devils  judge  ?     'T  is  a  bare  legal  form, 
This  solemn  meeting  of  her  enemies, 
Disguising  hate  in  ermined  justice'  gown. 

Second  C.    This  is  blunt  talk. 

First  G.  But  true. 

Third  G.  But  dangerous, 

To  speak  and  hear. 

First  C.  What  are  state  trials  now, 

More  than  the  whetting  of  the  headsman's  axe  ? 
We  English  people  have  forgot  the  rights 
Which  God  and  nature  give  to  every  man : 
Our  common  justice  is  a  common  drab  — 
A  pliant  doxy,  openly  deboshed  — 
Thjtt  winks  beneath  her  twisted  blind  at  lords, 
DofTs  it  for  kings  — 

Citizens.  Forbear,  forbear  I 

First  C.  Pshaw,  sirs  ! 

I  am  a  careless,  melancholy  man, 
Who  would  not  change  a  notion  for  my  life. 
I  sought  this  trial  of  her  majesty 
To  escape  myself  for  a  brief  interval ; 
But,  as  I  live,  it  crowded  in  such  thoughts 
Upon  my  proper  griefs,  that  I  would  rather 
Be  damned  to  wear  the  memory  of  a  fiend, 
Than  witness  such  another. 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  221 

Third  G.  Friends,  away  ! 

This  man  is  vile,  upon  his  own  confession. 
Lord,  sirs,  what  words  were  these  ! 

First  G.  Slink,  cowards,  slink  ! 

Get  to  your  slavish  homes  !     Brush  up  your  caps  ! 
Practise  your  loyal  lungs  !     Make  ready  all 
To  startle  Heaven,  when  good  Queen  Anne  dies, 
With  "  God  preserve  Queen  Jane  !  " 

Third  C.  This  man  is  mad. 

Second  C.    Nay,  sirs,  but  simple. 

First  G.  0  !  that  all  of  you, 

Two-legged  crawlers  to  ignoble  graves, 
Were  half  so  mad  as  I !  [Exit.] 

Third  G.  Poor  soul,  poor  soul ! 

Where  is  his  keeper  ?     He  may  come  to  harm. 

Second  G.  Let  us  take  the  fool's  advice,  and  hurry 

home ; 
For  there  's  no  chance  of  entrance  to  the  Tower. 

[Exeunt.] 


SCENE    IV. 

The  Great  Hall  of  the  Tower,  arranged  for  the  Queen's  trial. 
On  one  side  are  seated  Dukes  of  NORFOLK,  SUFFOLK,  and  RICH 
MOND,  Marquis  of  EXETER,  Earl  of  ARUNDEL,  and  other  Peers, 
as  Lords  Triers,  withOfficers,  fyc. ;  on  the  other,  QUEEN  ANNE, 
in  the  custody  of  Sir  WILLIAM  KINGSTON,  Ladies,  Attendants, 
Guards,  fyc. 

Norfolk.    Are  we  agreed?     [To  the  Lords.] 
Suffolk.  Here  is  our  verdict,  sir. 

[Hands  a  paper."] 

(RICHMOND  and  SUFFOLK  talk  apart. ) 


•222  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Richmond.   I  hope,  your  grace,  I  have  damned  my 

soul  enough 
To  please  the  most  fastidious  father. 

Suf.  Stuff! 

Rich.     Yes,     "stuff!"      substantial,    downright 

villany, 

That  I  shall  bear  upon  my  aching  heart 
Till  death  unload  it. 

Suf.  Come,  be  cheerful,  sir. 

It  ill  becomes  heroic  minds  to  shrink 
From  the  first  blood  of  triumph.     You  are  young 
And  dainty-minded  ;  time  will  strengthen  you. 

Rich.    Courage  but  adds  deformity  to  crime. 
A  wicked  heart,  though  placid  as  a  lake, 
Girt  and  controlled  by  rigid  barriers, 
Can  but  reflect  each  blessing  of  sweet  heaven, 
And  every  bordering  virtue  of  our  earth, 
All  topsy-turvy.     I  am  hardened,  sir  ; 
If  not  by  years,  at  least  by  sinfulness, 
That  wrinkled  register  of  ill-spent  days, 
Who  scars  his  moments  on  the  erring  heart, 
While  yet  the  brow  is  smooth  ! 

Suf  The  saints  look  down  ! 

This  pretty  sermon  must  have  washed  you  clean. 
Hist  I  hear  the  sentence. 

Nor.  Lady  Anne  Boleyn, 

Marchioness    of    Pembroke,    sometime     England's 

queen  — 

Though  most  unworthily,  as  the  strict  course 
Of  equal  justice  has  so  clearly  proved- 
Arise.     (The  QUEEN  rises.)     Lay  off  your  crown   and 
vestured  marks 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  223 

Of  royal  dignity,  to  hear  from  me 

The  solemn  finding  of  this  high  tribunal. 

(  QUEEN  A.xxEputs  off  her  crown  and  robe  of  state.) 

Queen  Anne.  Your  grace's  first  commands,  though 

harshly  meant, 
Are  merciful  indeed. 

Nor.  Be  silent,  madam  1 

Upon  each  several  charge,  whereon  you  stand 
Indicted  by  the  law,  we  do  pronounce 
Your  guilt  most  clear  ;  and  therefore  do  condemn  you, 
At  such  time  as  his  majesty  may  name, 
To  suffer  death  by  burning  at  the  stake, 
Or  by  beheading,  as  may  please  the  king.  — 
God  give  you  patience  to  endure  your  doom  ! 

Queen  A.    I  doubt  it  not.     0  Father,  0  Creator, 
Who  art  the  way,  the  life,  the  truth,  Thou  know'st 
If  I  deserve  this  death  ! 

Rich.  0  I  base,  base,  base  ! 

This  pardons  Herod  in  the  eye  of  Heaven.       [Aside.] 

Nor.    Marchioness  of  Pembroke,  have  you  aught 

to  say 
Touching  the  judgment  of  this  court  ? 

Queen  A.  My  lords, 

I  will  not  say  your  sentence  is  unjust  — 
Presuming  that  my  reasons  can  prevail 
Against  your  firm  convictions  ;  —  I  would  rather 
Believe  that  you  have  reasons  for  your  acts, 
Of  ample  power  to  vindicate  your  fames  ; 
But,  then,  they  must  be  other  than  the  court 
Has  heard  produced  :  for  by  the  evidence 
I  have  been  cleared,  to  all  unbiassed  minds, 
Of  each  offence  'gainst  which  that  proof  was  brought. 


224  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

I  have  been  ever  to  his  majesty 

A  faithful  wife  :  0  !  could  I  say  as  truly 

That  I  have  shown  him  the  humility 

His  goodness,  and  the  honor  he  conferred, 

Deserved  from  me !     I  have,  I  do  confess, 

Had  jealous  fancies  and  suspicious  thoughts  — 

In  which,  perchance,  I  wronged  him — that  had  I 

Been  more  discreet  and  anxious  to  conceal, 

I  had  been  more  the  queen,  but  less  the  wife. 

God  is  my  witness,  that  in  no  way  else 

Have  I  e'er  sinned  against  him. 

Think  not,  my  lords,  I  say  this  to  prolong 

My  heavy  life  ;  for  God  has  fortified 

My  trust  in  Him,  and  taught  me  how  to  die. 

Think  me  not  so  bewildered  in  my  mind, 

As  not  to  lay  my  chastity  to  heart, 

Now  in  my  last  extremity  ;  for  I 

Have  held  its  honor  far  above  my  crown, 

And  have  maintained  no  queenly  dignity 

More  pure  from  vulgar  stain.     I  know  my  words 

Can  naught  avail  me,  save  to  justify 

My  chastity,  so  perilled  by  your  doom. 

As  for  my  brother,  and  those  constant  friends 

With  me  unjustly  sentenced,  I  would  die 

A  thousand  deaths  to  save  their  guiltless  lives : 

But  since  it  has  so  pleased  his  majesty, 

I  will  accompany  them,  most  willingly, 

Through  death  to  heaven,  through  pain  to  endless 

peace. 
I  have  said  all. 

Nor.  Remove  the  prisoner. 

(QUEEN  ANNE  bows  to  the  Court,  and  is  led  off  by  Sir  WILLIAM 
KINGSTON.     Then  exeunt  all  but  the  Lords  Triers.) 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  225 

Rich.    We  are  damned  forever  ! 

Nor.  Poh,  poh  !  saved,  I  think. 

While  she  held  power  heads  flew  like  tennis-balls. 

Arundel.  Why  did  she  touch  so  lightly  on  the  king? 

Exeter.    'Twas  for  a  cause   no  deeper  than  the 

heart,  — 
She  loves  him  yet. 

Am,n.  The  sentimental  fool ! 

Mich.    Have   you  no  grosser  phrases?     "Fool/' 

forsooth ! 

There  7s  the  last  blow  to  greatness  !  —  Arundel 
Claims  her  as  kindred  ! 

Nor.  Gentlemen,  away  I 

Our  sun  of  power  is  burning  in  mid  air ; 
We  waste  the  daylight.     Come,  let  us  seek  the  king. 
Hug  every  Seymour  that  you  chance  to  meet ! 

[Exeunt.] 

SCENE  V. 

The  State  Apartments  in  the  Tower.     QUEEN  ANNE  alone. 

Queen  Anne  There  's  not  a  pang  remains  ;  there  7s 

not  a  wound, 

That  hate  can  give,  at  which  my  nerveless  heart 
Would  shrink  appalled      The  storm  of  life  has  blown, 
And  rent  my  prospect  into  countless  shreds, 
Chaotic,  undistinguished,  featureless —    ' 
Without  a  point,  before  me  or  behind, 
On  which  a  once  familiar  eye  may  rest  — 
And  all  is  calm  again.     Calm,  very  calm,  — 
An  utter  desolation  fixed  and  grim, 
And  barren  as  the  sand.     No  queen,  no  wife  — 

VOL.  i.  15 


42'2<)  ANNE    BOI.EYN. 

Ebbed  to  the  lowest.     0  Elizabeth, 

My  helpless  child,  whose  rights  were  all  in  me, 

How  could  a  mother  blast  her  memory, 

Even  in  thy  eyes,  by  yielding  to  her  foes 

Thy  royal  heritage  ?     Thou  'It  hate  me,  love  ; 

Thou  'It  say  thy  mother  wronged  thee,  eking  out 

Her  worthless  days  with  treasures  stolen  from  thee ; 

Unweeting  how  thy  uncle  arid  my  friends 

Owed  life  to  thee.     Why  must  1  wander  down 

All  coming  time  to  pick  new  sorrows  out  ?  — 

(A  bell  tolls.     QUEEN  ANNE  rushes  to  the  door.) 

Whose  knell  is  that  ? 

Sentinel.    (Without.)     Lord  Rochford's. 

Queen  A.  Duped,  duped,  duped  I 

0  God  !  my  brother  !  —  Is  there  such  a  one 
As  an  avenging  God  to  look  on  this, 
And  not  launch  fire  like  rain  ?    0  !  shameless  men  !  — 
Men  with  God's  raiment  on  their  placid  limbs  — 
Who  almost  swore  his  life  should  be  preserved, 
If  I  opposed  not  this  divorce.     0  nature  !  — 
Thou  who  dost  send  the  harmless  race  of  flowers, 
And  dews,  and  sunshine,  and  all  gracious  things  — 
What  creatures  hast  thou  sent  to  people  earth, 
And  blot  thy  fair  creation  ?     Cut  them  down  ! 
Or  make  this  globe  a  dusty  wilderness, 
Fit  for  their  habitation  !     Man,  0  man  I 
Thou  art  the  only  thing  in  nature's  scheme 
That  seems  disjointed  from  the  harmony,  — 
The  latest  thought  and  worst ! 

(Enter  MARY  WYATT.) 
Mary  Wyatt  Your  majesty  — 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  227 

Queen  A.    I  prithee  mock  me  not.    I  am  no  queen, 
Nor  wife,  nor  maid  —  I  know  not  what  I  am  ! 

Mary  W.    What  has  disturbed  you  ? 

Queen  A.  Did  you  hear  that  bell  ? 

Mary  W.    Pray,  pray  forgive  me  !    [Kneels,  weeping.} 

Queen  A.  Nay,  I  ;11  kneel  to  you, 

If  I  have  vexed  you.  [A  distant  shot  is  heard.} 

Rochford  !  [Another  shot.] 

Norris  !  [Another  shot.-] 

Weston  !       [Another  shot.] 

And  Brereton  !    Why  stop  your  cannon  ?    Shoot !  — 
Shoot  on,  till  half  the  world  shall  suffer  death  ; 
For  you  have  slain  the  noblest  part !     No,  no  ; 
The  next  shall  be  my  own  ! 

Mary  W.  Alas !  alas !         [  Weeping.] 

Queen  A.    Why  weep  you,  girl  ?   My  brother  was 

in  heaven, 

Ere  you  could  hear  the  noisy  cannon-shot 
Tell  his  departure. 

Mary  W.  Would  your  highness  fly, 

If  I  could  ope  these  hideous  prison-doors  ? 
.  Queen  A.    Not  for  the  world. 

Mary  W.  My  brother  has  a  plan 

To  raise  the  common  people  in  revolt  — 

Queen  A.   Hold,  if  you'd  live  !  I  yet  am  so  much 

queen 

As  to  protect  my  realm  from  traitor's  arts. 
How  dare  you  plot  these  treasonable  designs 
Against  the  safety  of  his  majesty? 
Name  it  again,  and,  as  I  live,  the  king 
Shall  know  your  thoughts  ! 

Mary  W.  'T  was  but  our  love  for  you  — 


228  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Queen  A.    How  !  love  for  me,  and  plotting  'gainst 

the  king  ! 
Mary  W.    Strange,  very  strange  I  [Aside.] 

(Enter  Sir  WILLIAM  KINGSTON  and  Guard.) 

Queen  A.  My  time  has  come,  Sir  William  ? 

Kingston.    It  has,  my  lady. 

Queen  A.  You  delayed  my  death  : 

I  should  have  died  some  hours  ago.     ;T  is  cruel 
To  dally  with  my  life. 

Kings.  'T  was  not  my  fault. 

The  Council  feared  a  rising  of  the  commons, 
And  therefore  changed  the  hour. 

Queen  A.  Ha  !  ha  !  how  weak  !     [Laughing.] 

Who  cares  about  my  death  ?     Is  Smeaton  dead  ? 

Kings.   He  is. 

Queen  A.  And  made  he  no  amends  to  me  ? 

Did  he  not  own  his  monstrous  perjuries  ? 

Kings.    Not  that  I  heard. 

Queen  A.  The  impious,  heartless  wretch  ! 

To  dare  o'erleap  the  doubtful  gulf  of  death, 
With  such  a  fearful  load  ! 

Mary  W.  His  death  was  just, 

Even  had  he  done  no  wrong,  —  the  inborn  felon  ! 

Queen  A.    Nay,  Mary,  chide  no  more.    Alas  !  poor 

Mark, 

I  fear  thy  soul  is  suffering  for  thy  tongue. 
Can  I  not  see  my  daughter  ? 

Kings.  'T  is  forbidden. 

Queen  A.   Well,  I  suppose  the  human  frame  can 

bear 
More  than  I  suffer  —  very  little  more  ! 

Kings.    My  lady.  [Bell  tolls.] 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  229 

Queen  A.      That  speaks  plainer,  sir.     I  am  ready 
I  hope  'twill  be  but  death,  not  butchery. 

Kings.    The  pain  is  short. 

Queen  A.  They  call  the  headsman  skilled  ; 

And  I  —  ha!  ha!  —  see,  good  Sir  William,  see  — 

[Laughing.] 

I  have  a  little  neck  !  [Clasps  her  neck.] 

Kings.  Why,  is  she  mad  ? 

I  in  my  time  I  have  seen  full  many  die, 
But  ne'er  before  saw  one  who  laughed  outright 
At  the  mere  thought  of  death. 


(Bell  tolls.) 

Queen  A.  Come,  Mary,  come  : 

We  keep  death  waiting. 

Mary  W.         Heaven  preserve  her  mind  ! 

Queen  A.    Set  on,  Sir  .William  !    You  shall  see,  ere 

long, 

How,  like  a  bride,  I  '11  meet  this  ugly  death, 
And  make  a  triumph  of  my  funeral  ! 
Pray  tell  his  majesty,  in  my  behalf, 
How  much  I  thank  him  for  his  many  favors. 
He  from  a  lady  made  me  marchioness  ; 
And  from  a  marchioness  he  raised  me  up 
To  the  full  top  of  earthly  power,  a  queen  : 
And  last,  his  graces  overrunning  life, 
He  crowns  my  innocence  with  martyrdom. 
My  name  is  set  above  the  reach  of  time, 
A  mark  for  men  to  carp  and  wonder  at  ; 
And  some  hereafter  will  believe  me  false, 
Some  think  me  true  ;  bear  witness,  sir, 
That  with  my  latest  breath  I  still  declare 
My  perfect  purity.     (Bell  tolls.)     Set  on,  set  on  ] 

[Exeunt."] 


230  ANNE    BOLEYN. 


SCENE  VI. 

The  Tower  Green  At  the  back  of  the  stage  is  a  scaffold,  hung 
with  blackt  on  which  are  the  block,  Headsman,  Attendants, 
Guard,  etc.  The  citizens  gradually  assemble  in  front  of  the 
scaffold.  A  bell  tolls  at  long  intervals. 

First  Citizen.   I  '11  watch  all  day,  but  what  I  '11  see 

her  die.  — 

Let  them  change  hours,  I  care  not.     Come  along. 
Second  Citizen.    Here's  a  good  stand. 
Ttiird  Citizen.  Yes  ;  if  't  is  good  to  stand, 

And  see  our  poor  queen  mangled. 

First  C.  "Poor  queen,"  sooth  ! 

Second  C.    You   are   a  scholar,  neighbor  Marma- 

duke  ; 

I  pray  you,  was  there  e'er  a  queen  before 
Who  graced  a  scafl'old  ? 

Third  C.  Ne'er  before  in  England 

Did  monarch  dare  so  try  his  people's  patience. 
First  C.    We  are  in  luck. 

Third  C.  Fie  !  fie  !  you  bloody  knave  ! 

-  First  C.  Marry,  arid  if  a  king  cannot  behead 
His  own  liege  wife,  whom  can  he  ? 

Third  C.  Monstrous  dolt ! 

First  C.   What  were  the  good  of  treason,  then, 

if  we 

Could  have  no  executions  ?  —  Mistress  Maud, — 
Hey,  hey  !  you  brought  the  children  ? 

[To  a  woman.] 

Woman.  Yes,  indeed  ; 

They  cannot  see  a  queen  die  every  day. 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  231 

Third    C.     You    tiger-hearted    woman,    do    you 

love 
The  sight  of  blood  ? 

Woman.  Nay  ;  the  example,  sir. 

Third  G.    Lord,  Lord  !  who  ever  caught  a  woman 

yet 

Without  pretexts  in  thousands  ! 

First  G.  'T  is  a  shame 

To  keep  us  honest  people  waiting  so. 

Citizens.     ( Without)     The  queen  !  the  queen  ! 

First  G.  Move  nearer. 

Citizens.  Make  way  there  ! 

Solemn  music.  Enter  Duke  of  NORFOLK,  Duke  of  SUFFOLK,  ana 
other  Noblemen;  QUEEN  ANNE  in  custody  of  Sir  WILLIAM 
KINGSTON  ;  MARY  WYATT,  and  other  Maids  of  Honor  ;  Guards, 
Attendants,  etc.  They  mount  the  scaffold.  Then  enter,  below 
THOMAS  WYATT. 

Wyatt.    One  look,  no  more.     0  !  wondrous,  won 

drous  fair ! 

Death  has  made  treaty  with  thy  loveliness, 
To  hide  the  horrors  that  invest  his  state. 
These  spiteful  clouds  of  earth-born  misery 
But  add  a  glory  to  thy  going  down. 
Slander,  disgrace,  fraud,  legal  infamy, 
Imprisonment,  this  hideous  form  of  death, 
Each  gains  a  splendor  from  its  touch  of  thee 
That  robs  regret   of  tears.     How  bright,  how  •calm  ! 
There  is  a  voiceless  sermon  in  that  face, 
To  cheer  the  lonely  heart  of  martyrdom, 
And  make  it  court  its  fate.     0,  Anne',  Anne  ! 
The  world  may  banish  all  regard  for  thee, 
Mewing  thy  fame  in  frigid  chronicles, 


'232  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

But  every  memory  that  haunts  my  mind 

Shall  cluster  round  thee  still.     I  '11  hide  thy  name 

Under  the  coverture  of  even  lines, 

I  '11  hint  it  darkly  in  familiar  songs, 

I  '11  mix  each  melancholy  thought  of  thee 

Through  all  my  numbers  :  so  that  heedless  men 

Shall  hold  my  love  for  thee  within  their  hearts, 

Not  knowing  of  the  treasure.     'T  would  be  sin 

To  keep  so  fair  a  flower  from  paradise,  — 

That,  in  the  very  flush  of  earthly  bloom, 

Felt  mildew  blown  on  every  ruffian  wind, 

And  canker  at  the  heart.     Go,  go,  —  farewell  ! 

The  sun  that  seems  departing,  to  our  eyes, 

Is  but  arising  on  another  land  ; 

Thy  death  to  us  is  the  short,  painful  birth 

That  ushers  in  thy  taintless  soul  to  heaven.  — 

Go,  go  !  I  would  not  raise  a  hand  to  keep  thee  here. 


Third  C.   Be  silent  !     Hear  her  majesty. 

Citizens.  Hush,  hush  ! 

Queen  Anne.    Good  Christian  people,  I  am  come 

to  die, 

According  to  the  judgment  of  the  law  ; 
And  therefore  it  would  ill  become  me  now, 
After  my  doom  is  past,  to  censure  it. 
I  am  come  hither  to  accuse  no  man, 
Nor  to  say  aught  upon  the  many  things 
Whereof  I  am  accused  :  for  well  I  know 
That  my  defence  doth  not  pertain  to  you, 
Nor  from  your  favor  could  I  hope  for  grace. 
I  am  come  here-  to  die,  to  yield  myself 
To  the  king's  will,  with  all  humility. 
I  pray  God  save  him,  and  extend  his  reign  ; 


ANNE    BOLEYN.  233 

For  he  has  been  a  gracious  prince  to  you  : 
To  me  —  I  doubt  not  but  his  goodness  went 
Beyond  my  slender  merit.     I  but  ask, 
Should  you  hereafter  judge  my  luckless  cause, 
The  best  of  each  man's  judgment.     Now,  farewell, 
To  you  and  to  the  world !     Forget  me  not, 
In  the  still  places  of  your  earnest  prayers 
Attend  me,  maidens. 

Mary  Wyatt.    0!  not  yet,  not,  yet !          [Weeping.'} 
Queen  A.    Well,  I  have  played  the  waiting-maid 

before, 

In  happier  hours.     Alas  !  poor  head,  thou  'It  roll 
In  a  brief  time  amid  this  scaffold's  dust ; 
As  thou  in  life  didst  not  deserve  a  crown, 
So  by  thy  doom  is  justice  satisfied, 
And  her  great  beam  repoised. 

[Removing  her  collar  and  coifs.'] 
And  ye,  my  damsels,, 

Who  whilst  I  lived  did  ever  show  yourselves 
So  diligent  in  service,  and  are  now 
To  be  here  present  in  my  latest  hour 
Of  mortal  agony,  —  as  in  good  times 
Ye  were  most  trustworthy,  even  so  in  this, 
My  miserable  death,  ye  leave  me  not. 
An  a  poor  recompense  for  your  rich  love, 
I  pray  you  to  take  comfort  for  my  loss  — 
And  yet  forget  me  not.     To  the  king's  grace, 
And  to  the  happier  one  whom  you  may  serve 
In  place  of  me,  be  faithful  as  to  me. 
Learn  from  this  scene,  the  triumph  of  my  fate, 
To  hold  your  honors  far  above  your  lives. 
When  you  are  praying  to  the  martyred  Christ, 
Remember  me,  who,  as  my  weakness  could, 


234  ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Faltered  afar  behind  His  shining  steps, 
And  died  for  truth,  forgiving  all  mankind. 
The  Lord  have  pity  on  my  helpless  soul ! 

[ Kneels  at  the  block.} 

(Jls  the  curtain  falls,  a  peal  of  ordnance  announces  the  death  of 
QUEEN  ANNE.) 


LEONOK  DE   GUZMAN: 

A    TRAGEDY. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


DON  PEDRO, King  of  Castile  and  Leon. 

DON  ENRIQUE:,  CONDE  DE  TRASTAMARA,  Eldest  son  to  Dona  Leonor. 

DON  FADRIQUE,  MASTER  OF  SANTIAGO,  Twin  brother  to  Don  En 
rique. 

DON  TELLO, Another  son  to  Dona  Leonor. 

DON  JUAN  ALONSO  DE  ALBURQUERQUE,  Prime  Minister  to  Don 

Pedro. 

DON  JUAN  NUNEZ  DE  LARA,  .  .  .  .  Lord  of  Biscay  :  a  presump 
tive  heir  to  the  crown. 

DON  FERNANDO  MANUEL  DE  VILLENA,  His  nephew,  brother  to  Dona 

Juana. 

ALONSO  CORONEL,  Governor  of  Medina  Sido- 

nia. 

CANEDO,      His  liegeman  and  friend. 

PRIEST, Chaplain  to  Dona  Leonor. 

AMBASSADOR, From  the  rebel  Don  Juan 

Manuel. 

PAGE, Attending  on  Don  Pedro. 

DONA  MARIA  DE  PORTUGAL,      ....  Mother  to  Don  Pedro. 

DONA  LEONOR  DE  GUZMAN, Mistress  to  King  Alfonso. 

DONA  JUANA  MANUEL  DE  VILLENA,     .  Sister  to  Don  Fernando. 

Courtiers,  Ladies,  Knights,  Soldiers,  Citizens,  Attendants,  SfC. 

SCENE,  Several  parts  of  Castile. 

TIME,  A.  D.  1350  and  1351. 


LEONOR  DE   GUZMAN. 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.  Medina  Sidonia.  Before  the  Gates  of  the  Castle. 
Sentinels  on  duty.  The  morning  drum  is  heard,  and  the  cere 
mony  of  relieving  guard  passes  ;  then  enter,  from  the  Castle, 
CORONEL  and  CANEDO.  The  Sentinels  salute  them. 

Coronel.    THE  saints  relieve  me  from  my  governor' 

ship  !  • 

My  honors  hang  about  me  like  wide  clothes 
Upon  a  shrunken  body  ;  I  scarce  move 
Without  some  awkward  stumble,  plainly  showing 
My  great  unfitness  for  my  great  command. 
I  '11  never  make  a  courtier.     Look,  Cafiedo, 
How  do  these  silken  slops  become  a  frame 
Worn  gaunt  in  armor  ?     Does  this  feathered  cap 
Droop  o'er  the  ugly  line  my  helmet  fretted 
Round  my  bald  forehead  ?     Can  this  chain  and  key 
Cover  my  gashes  ?     Or  this  slender  staff 
Bear  the  huge  weight  of  my  uncourtly  limp 
Through  bows  and  cringes  ?     Bah  !  I  spat  at  fortune 
When  I  forsook  the  wars. 

Canedo.  Despite  thy  "bah," 


*238  LEONOR  DE    GUZMAN. 

One  sees  the  wolf's  teeth  grinning  plain  enough 
Through  the  sheep's  fleece. 

Cor.  Ay,  there  's  the  curse  of  it ! 

But  yesterday  I  had  a  boon  to  ask,  — 
I  vow  I  asked  it  in  my  smoothest  phrase,  — 
When,  to  my  horror,  Dona  Leonor 
Laughed  in  my  face,  and  said,  in  her  mild  way, 
"  Out  with  your  dagger,  Coronel  I     The  act 
Would  fit  the  voice." 

Can.  And  thou  ? 

Cor.  And  1 1  I  ran  — 

Broke  through  her  maidens,  like  a  hurricane 
Through  the  rose-gardens  of  Granada  —  ran 
To  find  a  mandolin,  and  pitch  my  voice 
Down  to  its  finest  note.     Pray,  hear  me  now, 
In  the  sharp  treble  of  my  lady's  page  : 
"Par  Dieu," —  they  say  that's   French,  —  "I've 

found  a  band, 

A  pretty  band  of  silk — par  Dieu!  I  have  ; 
And  I  have  vowed  to  Mary  and  Saint  James 
To  bind  it  on  its  ravishing  abode, 
Or  die  in  treasuring  it — par  Dieu!  I  have  !  " 
Which  means,  in  simple  speaking,  I  have  found 
A  wench's  garter,  and  would  tie  it  on. 
Fie  !  fie  !  it  turns  my  stomach  inside  out, 
To  hear  their  lady-talk. 

Can.  Such  blows  on  hand, 

While  we  are  rusting  here  without  a  rub  ! 
Moors  flying  pell-mell  —  Don  Alfonso's  spears 
Combing  their  horse-tails  out  upon  the  wind  — 
Gibraltar's  garrison  with  all  its  eyes 
Fixed  upon  Africa,  as  on  a  goal  — 


LEONOR   DE    GUZMAN.  239 

The  plague  afoot  too  —  Heaven  at  work  with  man  — 
Why  death  must  caper  like  a  harlequin  ! 

Cor.    Ay,  how  I  long  to  have  my  iron  out ! 
Canedo,  just  hold  still,  and  be  my  Moor, 
Until  I  break  this  stick  across  thy  sconce. 

[Breaks  his  wand  over  CANEDO'S  head.  ] 

Can.    Thou  dost  not  strike  with  the  old  force. 

Cor.  I  fear  it. 

Did  I  not  hurt  thee  ? 

Can.  Not  a  whit. 

Cor.  That 's  sad  I 

Had  I  my  great  Toledo,  thou  shouldst  dance. 

Can.    But  had  I  mine  ?  - 

Cor.  What  then  ? 

Can.  I  'd  dance  thee  to 

Much  the  same  music. 

Cor.  If  thy  sword  agreed, 

In  length  or  temper,  with  that  tongue  of  thine, 
The  Cid  would  shoulder  over  in  his  tomb, 
To  give  thee  room  beside  him. 

Can.  Hold  thy  prate, 

Or  I  may  choke  thee  with  thy  governor's  chain ! 

Cor.    Not  till  I  'd  thumped  thy  mazzard  with  its 
key. 

Can.    Saint  Jago  !  but  I  '11  teach  thee  — 

Cor.  All  thou  know'st, 

And  after  dub  me  fool. 

Can.  Here  's  sharper  wit.   [Drawing.] 

Cor.    It  draws  as  sharp  reply.  [Drawing.] 

Can.  Now  keep  thy  ward. 

First  Sentinel.    Good  gentlemen  !  [Advancing.] 

Second  Sentinel.     Keep  back  !  the  blood  they  shed 
I  '11  catch  in  a  tailor's  thimble. 


240  LEONOR   DE  GUZMAN. 

Can.  Art  thou  ready  ? 

Cor.   For  what? 

Can.  To  have  thy  throat  cut. 

Cor.  As  thou  art. 

First  S.   Are  they  not  brave  ? 
Second  S.  Ay,  as  twin  lions,  boy  : 

They  live  to  wrangle  ;  they  '11  ne'er  die  for  it. 

(CoRONEL  and  CANEDO  fight.) 

Cor.    Canedo,  hist !  look  there.       [Drops  his  sword.] 

Can.  Where  ? 

Cor.  O'er  the  hill. 

Can.   I  am  no  hawk.     What  seest  thou  ? 

Cor.  An  armed  band 

Topping  the  hill  —  a  mass  of  moving  steel  — 
The  fore-guard  of  an  army,  if  I  know 
A  bodkin  from  a  sword.     Ho  !  ho  !  Canedo, 
Throw  up  thy  cap  !     Gibraltar  has  been  won, 
And  here  comes  King  Alfonso  with  the  spoils  ! 
Turn  out  the  guard,  and  saddle  my  dun  horse  ; 
I  '11  meet  our  sovereign  on  the  way.     Ho,  there  I 
Shake  out  the  yellow  silk  of  old  Castile  ! 
Run  to  the  outer  wall,  and  make  it  blaze 
With  our  bright  hauberks  and  our  lifted  spears, 
Until  the  very  stones  appear  on  fire, 
While  our  bold  trumpets  ring  in  heaven's  glad  ear, 
Its  soldier  has  returned  with  victory  ! 

[Drums.    Exit  Guard.] 

Can.    Hast  thou  the  plague  ? 

Cor.  Ever,  when  thou  art  near. 

Thou  ugly  budget  of  mortality, 
Throw  up  thy  cap  !  or,  by  the  saints,  I  '11  make 


LEONOR   DE    GUZMAN.  241 

Thy  cap  and  thee  a  fixture  in  the  air, 
By  hanging  thee  for  treason  ! 

Can.  Well,  hurra ! 

[Throwing  up  his  cap."] 

Behold  thy  sign  in  heaven,  —  an  empty  cap, 
As  thine  is  always. 

Cor.  Hum  !  thy  hair-patch  fills  it 

With  anything  but  wit.     Go  take  the  news 
Of  yonder  march  —  for  I  'm  in  desperate  haste  — 
To  Dona  Leonor. 

Can.  I  see  thy  drift : 

Thou  wouldst  evade  thy  duties,  governor. 
0,  fie  !  do  courtesy  by  deputy  ? 

Cor.    Now,  my  dear  friend  — 

Can.  I  '11  face  the  devil  first ! 

I  hate  a  woman. 

Cor.  They  are  quits  with  thee. 

She  may  discover  it  as  best  she  can. 
I  '11  not  be  jeered  at.     There  shall  be  no  more 
"  Out  with  your  dagger,  Coronel,"  to  please 
All  the  best  dames  of  love  within  the  land. 
And  yet  I  fear  — 

Can.  By  Jupiter,  thou  'rt  right ! 

A  peasant's  honest  drudge  takes  rank  with  me 
Before  the  wanton  of  an  emperor. 

Cor.    Go  in  to  thy  command,  and  man  the  walls  : 
I  '11  mount,  and  gallop  forth  to  meet  the  king. 

[Exeunt  severally.] 

VOL.  I.  16 


242  LEONOR   DE    GUZMAN. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Same.  The  Great  Hall  of  the  Castle.  LEONOR  DE  GUZMAN 
discovered  seated  in  state,  surrounded  by  DON  JUAN  DE  LARA, 
DON  FERNANDO  DE  VILLENA,  DON  TELLO,  Courtiers,  Knights, 
Ladies,  Men-at-Jlrms,  fyc.  DON  JUAN  DE  LARA  is  in  the  act 
of  investing  DON  TELLO  with  a  crimson  Scarf,  the  order  of 
'*  La  Banda." 

Lara.    Arise,  Don  Tello,  of  the  crimson  band, 
A  noble  knight,  and  brother  in  our  arms  ! 
I  thus  salute  thee.  [Embraces  him.} 

Leonor.  And,  I  pledge  my  faith, 

He  shall  prove  worthy  of  the  dignity. 
I  pray  you,  gentlemen,  make  way  for  me  : 

[  A  dvanc  ing.} 

A  mother's  kiss  should  not  be  last  to  greet 
The  honors  of  a  son.     (Kisses  DON  TELLO.)      Don  Tello, 

know 

This  order  was  bestowed  to  spur  thee  on 
To  actions  that  may  make  thy  worth  appear 
Equal  with  our  bestowing.     This  fair  badge 
Is  not  an  ornament  for  festal  days, 
A  ribbon  to  enrich  thy  vanity, 
But  the  illustrious  mark  by  which  Castile 
Knows  her  great  children,  and  can  turn  to  them 
With  confident  assurance  of  such  deeds 
As  raised  her  glory  to  its  present  height. 
Thy  breast  is  girt  as  with  a  ring  of  fire  : 
An  evil  act  within  its  circle  looks 
Prodigious  to  beholders,  and  draws  all 
To  fix  their  concentrated  eyes  upon 
The  splendid  criminal.     Small  flames  on  heights 
Show  further  than  great  fires  in  humbler  spots  ; 


LEONOR   DE    GUZMAN.  243 

And  they  who  see  them  from  the  vale  below 
Oft  take  a  candle  for  a  meteor. 
Remember  this  ;  and  fear  thy  slightest  fault 
May  spread  corruption  through  an  empery. 

Lara.   (Apart  to  VILLENA.  )  Right  royal  that,  and  to 

the  purpose,  too : 
Some  one  has  told  her  of  Don  Tello's  slips. 

Villena.   (Apart  to  LARA.)    Ay,  if  a  lance-head  ever 

fray  that  band, 
Charge  me  with  scandal. 

Lara.  Hark  !  there  's  more  to  come. 

Leo.    Don  Tello,  thy  renown  lies  next  my  heart, 
Close  to  thy  father's.     I  have  much  to  say  ;  — 
But  no,  —  not  here.     A  mother's  privilege 
Borders  too  near  the  sanctity  of  prayer 
For  public  ears.     Call  the  ambassador. 

[Resumes  her  state.'] 

Flourish.  Enter  the  Ambassador  from  the  Rebel,  DON  JUAN 
MANUEL,  with  Gentlemen,  Soldiers,  Attendants,  SfC.,  bearing 
sumptuous  presents. 

Ambassador.  (Kissing  DONA  LEONOR'S  hand.)  Lady,  my 

lord  salutes  you  with  these  gifts, 
Rather  as  evidence  of  his  good  will, 
Than  as  fit  offering  to  your  deserts. 
The  gods,  who  scorned  the  shepherd's  sacrifice 
Of  curds,  and  wine,  and  bleeding  throats  of  lambs, 
Looked  not  unkindly  on  the  worshipper, 
Despite  the  simple  service  of  his  hands.  — 

Leo.    Pray  you,  end  there.     To  offer  mortal  ears 
That  which  becomes  divinity  alone, 
Insults  its  majesty  and  our  plain  sense. 
The  power  I  hold  is  delegated  trust 


'244  LEONOR    DE   GUZMAN. 

From  the  true  centre  of  all  power,  the  king. 

If  you  have  business  that  concerns  the  state, 

I  '11  hear  with  patience  ;  if  you  'd  deal  with  Heaven, 

Carry  your  incense  to  the  nearest  church. 

Lara.     (Apart  to  VILLENA.)    Mark  the   ambassador! 

That  lofty  stride 
Tripped  up  his  earthly  progress. 

Vil.  How  he  burns  ! 

His  throat  is  full  of  thistles. 

Leo.  Is  there  aught, 

Between  Don  Manuel  and  his  majesty, 
That  our  discourse  may  further  ? 

Am.  Much,  your  grace, 

But  not  intended  for  publicity. 

Leo.    Speak  out.     The  government  deserves  dis 
trust 
That  stops  the  people's  ears  while  it  debates. 

Am.    Your  wishes  are  commands.     Don  Manuel, 
Some  time  in  arms  against  his  sovereign, 
Proffers  his  fealty  to  you,  and  swears 
To  be  your  liegeman  on  a  single  term. 

Leo.    Name  it.     The  king  would  stretch  his  clem 
ency, 
To  make  a  friend  of  his  illustrious  foe. 

Am.    'T  is  a  condition  pleasant  to  the  king  — 
Or  rumor  lies  for  once  in  good  report  — 
And  honorable  to  her  for  whom  't  is  urged  : 
Simply,  that  Don  Alfonso  should  divorce 
That  hag  of  Portugal  - 

Leo.  Sir,  let  me  say, 

That  is  no  title  in  Castilian  ears 
To  know  their  queen  by.     How  now,  gentlemen, 
Is  there  no  gauntlet  down  upon  the  word  ? 


LEONOR    DE   GUZMAN.  245 

You  downcast  men,  do  you  not  blush  to  see 
The  spurs  of  chivalry  upon  your  heels  ? 

(LARA,  VILLENA,  and  other  Knights,  throw  their  gauntlets  before 
the  Ambassador.') 

There,  on  my  faith,  you  see  't  is  raining  steel ! 

Thou  backward,  Tello  !  [He  throws  down  his  gauntlet.] 

And,  to  crown  them  all, 
Behold  a  prince's  glove  upon  the  heap ! 
Bear  our  defiance  to  Don  Manuel ; 
And  say,  a  word  of  treason  is  a  spell, 
To  conjure  up  such  loyal  storms  as  this, 
In  our  Castilian  air.     Your  pardon,  sir : 
We  check  your  lord,  not  his  ambassador. 
What  follows  this  ? 

Am.  Your  coronation,  lady. 

After  divorcement  of  the  queen,  my  lord 
Would  see  the  imperfect  throne  made  whole  by  you. 

Leo.     What   say   you,    sirs  ?     My   lord   of  Lara, 
speak. 

Lara.    I  only  may  repeat  the  general  voice, 
Strengthened  by  sanction  from  the  king  himself. 
Accept  the  offer,  not  as  his  alone, 
But  as  the  constant  wish  of  all  Castile. 

Leo.    Speak,  Don  Fernando. 

Vil.  Lara's  choice  is  mine. 

Leo.    My  son,  Don  Tello  ? 

Tello.  If  they  make  me  royal, 

I  '11  fill  my  office  with  what  grace  I  can. 
Certes,  if  one  held  out  a  crown  to  me, 
I  should  not  put  my  hands  behindhmy  back. 

Leo.    Thou  art  the  frankest  speaker  of  them  all. 
Ah,  gentlemen,  it  is  your  private  hopes 


246  LEQNOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Of  what  may  follow  to  yourselves,  through  me, 
That  hurries  this  advancement. 

Lara.  You  mistake, 

At  least  in  me,  the  object  of  our  hopes. 
Through  you  Castile  would  flourish  — 

Leo.  Has  it  not  ? 

If  naught 's  accomplished,  nothing  can  I  do. 
I  found  this  land  an  arme"d  wilderness, 
A  chain  of  citadels,  and  all  between 
Was  desolation  trampled  into  dust 
By  a  fierce  soldiery,  who  only  brooked 
The  fiercer  orders  of  their  savage  chiefs. 
So,  in  the  midst,  I  built  a  house  of  peace, 
An  unwalled  palace,  full  of  open  doors ; 
And  round  about  I  spread  a  garden-plot, 
Hedged  it  with  flowers,  and  from  its  sculptured  urns 
I  sent  the  streams  back  to  their  native  heaven, 
Returned  in  music.     No  defence  was  mine, 
Save  the  imploring  weakness  of  the  flowers, 
The  scented  dews  my  fountains  scattered  out, 
And  the  light  blushes  of  my  garrison. 
Yet  at  my  gate  War  laid  aside  his  spear, 
And  vines  ran  round  it,  from  the  hand-worn  grasp 
Up  to  the  steely  point,  whence  blossoms  hung 
Trembling  with  horror.     Ay,  the  rugged  god 
Doffed  his  grim  casque,  and  sat  beside  my  feet, 
Until  I  schooled  him  with  the  mandolin ; 
Or  taught  his  awkward  limbs  to  move  apace 
In  other  measures  than  the  martial  tread. 
Are  these  things  naught  ?     These  are  my  conquests, 

sirs  ; 

And  she  who  steps  beyond  her  threshold's  dust, 
To  play  Achilles  in  her  woman's  gear, 


LEONOR    DE   GUZMAN.  247 

Shall  find  the  sword-hilt  frets  her  dainty  hand, 
And  the  great  helmet  makes  her  forehead  ache. 

Lara.    Yet  there  are  other  duties  of  a  queen,  — 
Calm  government,  the  sway  of  useful  days, 
Bent  on  a  nation's  welfare. 

Leo.  Ah  !  the  hand 

That  takes  a  sceptre  up,  knows  not  how  soon 
The  royal  symbol  must  become  a  sword. 

Am.    But,  lady  — 

Leo.  Ay,  sir,  so  much  for  myself; 

Now  for  the  weightier  matters  of  the  realm. 
What  are  your  master's  ends  in  this  affair  ? 

Am.    I  am  his  spokesman,  not  his  confidant. 

Leo.    Mark,  how  much  nearer  to  his  heart  am  I, 
Don  Manuel  fears  Castile's  advancing  power 
May  crush  the  Moor,  and  win  a  general  peace : 
In  which  conjuncture,  rebels  like  himself 
Could  ill  abide  our  undistracted  arms. 
His  safety  hangs  upon  our  foreign  wars. 
Divorce  the  queen,  and  on  our  western  skirts, 
Instant,  insulted  Portugal  uprears 
His  warlike  standard,  in  the  queen's  behalf; 
While,  from  the  south,  the  hordes  of  Africa 
Again  win  footing  on  our  weakened  lines. 
Then  our  new  liegeman  puts  his  oath  aside, 
With  the  same  readiness  he  put  it  on, 
And  rises  in  our  midst  a  dangerous  foe, 
Made  more  audacious  by  his  treachery. 
Say  to  your  master  that  my  lord,  the  king, 
Treats  with  his  rebels  at  the  lance's  point, 
Nor  ever  recognized,  nor  ever  will, 
Don  Manuel's  right  to  treat  by  embassy. 
Take  back  the  trinkets  you  designed  for  me  — 


248  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Don  Manuel's  needs  will  shortly  ask  for  them ; 
And  tell  him,  Leonor  de  Guzman  loves 
No  title  in  the  spacious  gift  of  man, 
Above  the  welfare  of  her  native  land. 

Am.    Must  this  be  final  ? 

Leo.  Yes,  sir  ;  't  is  the  fruit 

Of  many  a  painful  hour  of  solemn  thought,  — 
Of  many  a  struggle  with  a  treacherous  heart, 
Whose  passions  threatened  to  be  paramount. 

Am.    Lady,  with  your  reply  my  functions  cease. 
Now,  as  a  gentleman  of  Spain,  I  say 
That  your  refusal  of  this  proffered  crown 
Rivals  in  splendor  the  ambitious  gift, 
And  dims  its  jewels  with  your  eloquent  breath. 
She  who  next  wears  the  honors  you  put  by 
Must  sit  beneath  you  in  real  dignity. 
Humbly  I  take  my  leave. 

[ffisses  her  hand,  and  exit  with  his  suite.] 

(Solemn  music,  tolling  of  bells,  and  cries  of  grief,  are  heard.) 

Leo.  What  sounds  are  these 

That  so  appal  me,  like  the  uplifted  voice 
Of  direful  prophecy  ? 

(Enter  DON  ENRIQUE  and  DON  FADRIQUE,  followed  by  CORONEL 
and  CANEDO.) 

Enrique.  Mother ! 

Leo.  My  son  !  — 

And  thou,  twin  brother  to  my  eldest  born  ! 
The  hour  that  made  your  difference  in  birth, 
Makes  none  within  my  heart. 

En.  Mother ! 

Fadrique.  Alas  ! 


LEONOR   DE   GUZMAN.  249 

En.    0  God  !  be  doubly  dear  to  us  a  while, 
Or  fate  will  crush  us  ! 

Leo.  Sons  —  Enrique  —  speak ! 

What  is  this  mystery  ? 

En.  Mystery  !     Would  't  were  so, 

And  not  so  plain  before  my  shrinking  soul  I 
Tell  her,  good  brother. 

Fad.  Didst  thou  speak  to  me  ? 

Leo.   This  cruelty  is  not  usual  with  you,  sons.  — 
The  king,  the  king  I  —  Where  is  your  father  ? 

En.  Look, 

Through    the    wide    casement,    on    yon    mournful 

host ! — 

The  trailing  pikes  —  the  furled  emblazonry 
Of  our  victorious  standards  —  the  bowed  heads 
Of  veterans  who  behold  each  other's  scars 
Channels  for  running  tears,  without  surprise  — 
The  empty  saddle  — • 

Leo.  JT  is  thy  father's  steed, 

Roderick,  the  last  of  the  old  Gothic  strain  ; 
Oft  have  I  held  him  by  his  golden  bit, 
Against  Alfonso's  spurring.  — 

En.  Mother,  mother, 

Thou  dreamest,  mother.     Wake  !  the  king  — 

Leo.  The  king  ? 

Well,  well,  the  king  is  ill  ?  —  is  wounded  ?  —  Ha  ! 
Where  is  the  king  ? 

En.  He  's  dead  ! 

Leo.  No,  no  I  [Faints.'} 

All.  Dead!  dead! 

En.    Fadrique,  loose  her  collar.     She  revives. 
0,  bitter  waking  to  a  world  of  woe  ! 


250  LEONOR    DE   GUZMAN. 

Leo.    Some   one  —  thou,    thou,    Enrique,    was  it 

not  ?  - 
Brought  me  a  message  from  my  lord  the  king. 

En.    Many.  — 

Leo.  Thou  dar'st  not  tell  me  he  is  dead  ? 

Thou  wouldst  behold  a  helpless  woman  quake  ? 
Such  words  are  treason  while  the  sovereign  lives. 

En.    Alas! 

Leo.         And  thou  believ'st  it  ? 

En.  From  these  arms  — 

For  there  were  few  who  dared  confront  the  plague  — 
That  mighty  champion  of  Christendom 
Took  flight  for  heaven. 

Leo.  Dear  Lord  !  and  is  it  so  ? 

I  feel  somewhat  bewildered  in  my  mind, 
And  what  I  see  is  hardly  in  clear  view,    • 
Though  I  see  much  —  much  —  much  — 

f  Walks  about  wildly.] 

En.  Awake,  poor  heart  I 

Nay,  slumber  on.     Her  smitten  sense  is  numb, 
And  reason  sits  not  upright  on  his  throne. 
But  we,  Fadrique,  have  beheld  such  things, 
As  might  parch  up  the  tearful  eyes  of  grief 
With  flaming  anger. 

Fad.  Yes  ;  and  't  is  no  time 

To  stand  before  our  fate  with  idle  hands. 
Mother,  the  liberty  and  lives  of  all 
Whom  thou  call'st  children  are  in  jeopardy  : 
Inaction  will  undo  us. 

En.  Speak  to  us  I 

Dear  mother,  thou  hast  sorrows  that  pass  cure, 
But  there  are  other  wounds  that  need  thy  aid. 

Leo.    What  said  your  grace  ? 


LEONOR   DE    GUZMAN.  251 

Fad.  The  king  is  dead,  good  mother. 

Leo.     Ay,  I  know  that. 

En.  And  all  the  smothered  hate 

Of  Alburquerque,  and  the  wolfish  queen, 
Begins  to  darken  in  e'ach  face  we  see. 

Leo.    Where  is  the  king  ? 

Fad.  Dead. 

Leo.  Then  what  help  have  we  ? 

Or  what  worse  fortune  can  befall  ?     Why,  we 
May  sit  and  laugh,  like  beggars,  in  our  rags, 
At  the  rich  trappings  which  'men  fear  to  lose. 

En.    Such  desperation  would  disgrace  a  man, 
Yet  it  shows  sweetly  in  thee,  mother.     I, 
Who  hold  the  duties  of  an  eldest  son, 
Must  not  so  far  forget  the  blood  I  bear, 
As  to  sit  sobbing  o'er  my  father's  corpse, 
While  ruin  seizes  on  his  heritage. 
Fly  to  thy  order,  brother.     I  believe 
Santiago's  banner  can  protect  its  master, 
Until  I  rally  our  undoubted  friends. 
Tello,  take  horse  —  I  need  not  bid  thee  spur  — 
And  bear  Fadrique  company.     Away  ! 

Fad.    Thy  blessing,  mother. 

Leo.  God  protect  you  both  ! 

[Exeunt  FADRIQUE  and  TELLO.] 
Enrique,  thou  misjudgest :  I  am  patient  — 
Quite  patient  —  ready  to  be  ruled  by  thee  ; 
Only  ask  nothing  may  proceed  from  me  ; 
Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt. 

(Solemn  music.     Enter  Soldiers  with  the  bier  of  KING  ALFONSO.) 

0  heaven  !  my  —  sovereign  I 
Husband,  I  nearly  said  :  but  I  'm  a  widow,  — 


252  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Or  was  years  since,  before  Alfonso's  day, — 

And  the  old  term  comes  easily  to  my  lips. 

Besides,  Alfonso  loved  that  name  from  me, 

When  we  were  jesting. —  Ay,  that  corpse  could  jest : 

You  would  not  think  it,  now,  to  look  at  him. 

Forgive  nie,  friends,  for  slandering  your  king. 

En.    0  mother,  mother,  put  these  toys  away, 
And  bless  the  swords  that  must  be  drawn  for  thee. 

Leo.    No  swords  for  me.  —  Yet,  dear  Enrique,  do 
That  which  seems  best,  without  a  thought  of  me. 
My  lord  of  Lara,  you  were  guardian, 
Under  the  gracious  orders  of  the  king, 
Of  my  poor  person  ;  —  what  would  you  advise  ? 

Lara.    Shut  up  the  castle.    You  have  power  enough 
To  bide  a  two-years'  siege  from  half  Castile. 

En.    I  like  the  counsel. 

Leo.  Governor  Coronel, 

Shut  up  our  castle. 

Coronel.  Not  till  I  am  forth. 

I  have  some  pressing  business  in  Seville. 

Canedo.   The  only  sane  reply  thou  ever  madest ! 

[Apart  to  CORONEL.] 

En.    Now,  thou  ungrateful  traitor,  were  it  not 
"For  the  most  sacred  presence  of  the  dead, 
I  'd  buffet  thee  ! 

Cor.  Peace,  bastard  !  you  may  have 

Some  fair  occasion  in  an  open  field. 

[Throws  down  his  key  of  office,  and  exit,  with  CANEDO.] 

Leo.  Our  friends  fall  off  with  little  shaking,  son. 
My  lord  of  Lara,  as  our  deputy,  [Offering  the  key.] 
We  here  present  our  castle's  key  to  you. 

Lara.   Forgive  me,  lady  :  a  neglected  order, 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  253 

Urging  my  instant  presence  at  Seville, 

Is  two  days  old  with  me.  [Exit  with  VILLENA.] 

En.  Kc turn,  false  Lara, 

And,  on  my  father's  bier,  I  '11  offer  up 
Thy  faithless  body  to  his  angry  ghost  I 

(  The  Courtiers,  Knights  $c.,  gradually  drop  out,  talking  eagerly, 
and  leave  LEONOR,  ENRIQUE,  and  the  soldiers,  with  the  body.) 

You  skulking  villains,  cannot  you  remain  ? 

First  Courtier.    1 7m  most  obnoxious  to  the  plague, 

my  lord ;  — 

My  father  died  of  it.  [Exit.] 

Second  Courtier.  And  mine.  [Exit.'] 

Third  Courtier.  And  mine.     [Exit] 

En.    Yet  left  the  plague-spot  in  your  very  souls, 
You  nest  of  sickly  cowards  !     Shame,  sir  knight ! 
I  saw  you  win  those  rowels,  that  so  ring 
Disgrace  behind  you,  in  a  battle-field  ! 

Knight,    But  not  to  lose  them  in  a  broil.        [Exit.] 
Leo.    (Approaching  the  bier.)  Alack! 

Blame  not  the  leaves  for  falling  with  the  trunk. 
Here  lies  in  death  the  noble  tree  from  which 
Castilian  honor  drew  its  only  sap. 
Alas  !  thy  branches  sheltered  noisome  weeds, 
That  sucked  their  living  from  thy  generous  roots  ; 
And  thou  didst  drop  o'er  them  thy  healthful  dews, 
And  smiled,  as  if  thou  Mat  nurtured  gentle  flowers. 
When  such  as  he  o'erturn,  the  world  around 
Is  strewn  with  ruin.     Son,  depart  at  once  : 
Gather  thy  friends  ;  or,  shouldst  thou  fail,  perchance, 
Then,  join  rne  in  Seville.     My  mind  is  clear, 
And  wholesome  blood  runs  through  my  veins  again. 


254  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

En.    Mother,  I  'II  keep  with  thee :    there 's  time 
enough. 

Leo.    Where  goes  the  body,  friend  ? 

Soldier.  Towards  Seville. 

Leo.    Thither  go  I.     Alfonso,  love  like  mine 
Ne'er  takes  a  parting  e'er  the  shroud  is  on. 
Faithful  to  thee,  I  followed  thee  through  life  — 
Faithful,  I  follow  through  the  shades  of  death  ! 

(Solemn  music.      Exeunt    Soldiers  with  the   body,  followed  by 
LEONOR  and  ENEIQUB.) 


LEONOR   DE   GUZMAN.  255 


ACT     II. 

SCENE  I.     A  Street  in  Seville.     Enter  a  knot  of  Citizens. 

First  Citizen.    HER  grand-aunt  was  a  conjurer,  and 
made  — 

Second  Citizen.    An  ass  of  you.     I  see  no  witch 
craft  there. 

First  C.    Why,  you  — 

Third  Citizen.    Be  civil.    Fair  words  are  fair  gifts. 

First  C.   I  say,  her  grand- aunt  was  a  conjurer — 

Second  C.    So  are  not  you. 

Third  C.  Well,  patience  hears  long  tales  : 

But  let  us  listen. 

First  C.  And  she  made,  they  say, 

A  magic  girdle  — 

Second  C.  Girth  for  her  said  ass  — 

Being  a  stumbling  beast ;  and  to  the  girth 
She  fixed  a  bladder  full  of  solid  lies, 
That  rattle,  like  the  coxcomb  of  a  fool, 
Whene'er  the  said  ass  jogs. 

Third  C.  0  !  neighbors,  neighbors, 

Wit  is  a  sword,  and  wrangling  feeds  the  leech. 

First  C.   I  heed  him  not. 

Second  C.  'Tis  not  for  lack  of  ears. 

You  are  a  foul  kind  of  chameleon, 
Who  live  upon  the  floating  breath  of  slander  ; 
You  'd  go  a  journey  to  bring  home  a  lie, 
And  be  so  fattened  on  it,  e'er  you  came, 


256  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Your  wife  would  scarcely  know  you.     You  pass  life 

In  raking  up  such  shreds  of  calumny 

As  none  will  own,  things  men  cast  out  of  doors, 

With  stealthy  blushes  :  yet  you  treasure  them, 

And  hang  your  filthy  garbage  in  our  sight, 

As  if  the  saints  had  worn  it.     Give  report 

Stamp  base  enough,  and  't  is  your  current  coin  ; 

While  honest  gold  you  smell  at,  and  return. 

You  'd  believe  Judas  when  he  spoke  in  jest, 

Yet  doubt  the  true  Apostles  on  their  oaths. 

If  you  had  any  seeds  of  goodness  in  you, 

I  'd  rake  you  over,  but  I  'd  make  them  sprout ! 

First  C.    Pray,  have  you  done,  or  are  you  out  of 
breath  ? 

Tliird  G.    Let  Satan  give  instruction  to  his  own. 
An  angry  teacher  trains  a  stupid  school ; 
And  so,  farewell !     Short  partings  give  short  pains. 

[  Going.] 

Second  C.    Well  said,  brown  wisdom  !     I  will  give 

him  o'er, 

If  you  '11  return.     I  '11  miss  your  sentences  ; 
They  come  like  texts  into  a  dull  discourse, 
Seasoning  the  matter  with  a  taste  of  heaven. 

Third  C.    Thank  you  's  soon  said.     Our  gossip  's 

patient,  too, 
And  that  moves  mountains. 

r 

Fourth  Citizen.  Let  us  have  the  tale. 

First  C.    Nay,  if  he  snub  me  — 

Second  G.  I  will  not,  in  faith. 

Lie  on, —  I  '11  listen,  if  I  can't  believe. 

First  C.    Well,  the  grand  aunt  of  Dona  Leonor 
Was  an  enchantress,  and  could  make  the  stare 
Go  backward  in  their  orbits.  — 


«  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  257 

Second  G.  Did  she  ever  ? 

First  G.    1  know  not ;  but  she  could. 

Second  G.  I  ?d  have  the  proof. 

Third  G.    Apt  swearers  are  apt  liars. 

Second  G.  True,  indeed  ; 

I  break  my  promise. 

First  G.  So,  one  night,  she  made 

A  wondrous  girdle,  from  the  inner  skin 
Of  maiden's  hearts  that  broken  were  of  love.  — 

Second  G.    A  rare  material ! 

First  G.  Then  she  took  the  belt, 

And  held  it  o'er  the  infernal  fumes,  until  — 

Second  G.    She  sneezed,  and  dropped  it  in  ? 

First  G.  No,  no,  indeed  ; 

Till  it  became  invisible  to  all  — 

Second  G.  That  I  believe. 

First  G.    Save  her  who  wears  it.     Arid  this  girdle 

she, 

In  a  dark  hour,  gave  Dona  Leonor ; 
Saying,  its  magic  had  the  power  to  hold 
In  abject  love  whatever  man  she  willed. 
She  chose  Alfonso.  — 

Second  C.  She  struck  high  at  once. 

But  why  not  choose  him,  ere  he  choose  the  queen  ? 

First  G.    The  belt  was  not  then  fashioned. 

Second  C.  And  they  say  — 

Let  me  take  up  your  story  —  that  at  times, 
In  the  full  moon,  when  fools  are  very  rife, 
This  magic  girdle  presses  her  about, 
And  doth  so  burn  her  with  infernal  flames, 
That  she  cries  out,  in  direful  agony  — 
Curses  her  aunt,  as  if  she  were  no  kin, 
And  says  —  [Pauses.] 

VOL.  i.  17 


258  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  » 

All.  0,  Lord  !  what  says  she  ? 

Second  G.  Things  like  this  — 

"  I  can  tell  asses,  if  I  hear  them  bray !  " 
Who  shall  want  audience  for  a  silly  tale  ? 
The  loveliest  woman  on  Castilian  earth, 
The  gentlest  dame  that  ever  drew  our  air  — 
She,  the  epitome  of  excellence, 
The  flowering  top  and  glory  of  her  sex  — 
She  to  be  rated  as  a  sorceress, 
By  filthy  rascals  whose  best  breath  would  be 
An  insult  to  her  presence  !     Get  you  home, 
And  grind  your  knee-balls  to  the  very  bones, 
In  thanks  to  her,  and  prayers  for  your  base  selves !  — 
Foh  !  you  are  odious.  [Exit.} 

First  G.  There  's  a  fellow  for  you !  — 

A  very  infidel,  who  scarce  believes 
In  sorcery  itself.     The  rude-tongued  fool ! 
Would  I  had  throttled  him  !     This  comes,  I  trow, 
Of  home-bred  ignorance.     I  've  been  to  Rome  — 
Ay,  and  to  Paris  —  where  I've  seen  more  witches  — 
Real  sturdy  witches,  young  and  old,  forsooth  — 
Burnt  at  the  stake,  upon  a  holiday, 
Than  I  have  fingers  to  these  fellow  hands. 
I  tell  you,  one  time  — 

(Enter  a  Citizen  hastily.) 

Fourth  G.  What 's  the  news,  good  friend  ? 

Fifth  Citizen.    Gibraltar  is  surrounded  by  the  king, 
And  must  surrender  ere  another  week. 
The  plague  has  broken  out  — 

All.  The  plague  I  the  plague  I 

Third  G.   Who  told  you  so  ? 

Fifth  G.       •  One  from  Gibraltar. 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  259 

All.    (Running from  him.)  Ha  I 

First  G.    Oi\t  of  our  sight !  tliou  villain,  as  thou  art, 
To  speak  with  clean  men  !     Take  thy  plague  away, 
Or  we  '11  fall  on  thee  ! 

Fifth  G.  I  am  sound. 

First  G.  Thou  liest ! 

Thou  'rt  one  great  sore. 

Fifth  G.  Indeed,  I  feel  not  well. 

Third  G.    Caution  's  a  famous  doctor  :  I  '11  be  off. 
Better  go  laughing,  than  remain  to  weep.          [Exit.] 

Fifth  G.    Pray,  friends,  assist  me  !    I  've  a  burning 

pain 
Across  the  temples,  and  — 

All.  The  plague  !  the  plague  ! 

First  G.   Thou  desperate  wretch,  to  issue  from  thy 

house 

In  this  condition  !     Bear  thy  malady 
Back  to  thy  wife  and  children,  like  a  Christian. 
Nay,  if  thou  'It  not  be  going,  I  '11  away. 

[Exit  with  the  others.'] 

(Reenter  Second  Citizen.) 

Fifth  G.    0  !  I  shall  perish  !  [Lies  down.] 

Second  Citizen.  What's  the  matter  here  ? 

Ill,  and  no  creature  nigh  !     What  is  it,  friend  ? 

Fifth  G.    I  tell  you  frankly,  sir,  because  you  speak 
From  a  kind  heart,  I  have  the  plague. 

Second  G.  Poh,  poh  I 

You  're  clean  as  snow.     I  feel  no  fever  here.  — 

Fifth  G.    'Sdeath  !   do  not  touch  me  ! 

Second  G.  What  an  eye  you  have  ! 

Clear  as  a  sunbeam.     Let  me  see  your  tongue. 
Thou  move  compassion  by  thy  false  disease  — 


260  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Stir  a  man's  heart  to  pity  by  thy  groans  ! 
Thou  arrant  beggar,  art  thou  not  ashawed 
To  face  detection  ? 

Fifth  G.  On  my  life,  I  feel 

A  deal  improved  by  your  encouragement.         [Rises.] 
The  pain  has  left  my  head.  — 

Second  C.  Not  yet  a  while  ; 

Thou  'It  feel  it  shortly.     (Strikes  him.)     Has   the  fit 

returned  ? 
Impostor  —  counterfeit — sham  plague!  [Beatiny him.] 

Fifth  C.  01—01 

Second   G.    I  '11  teach  thee  to  act  Lazarus  in  the 

streets, 

For  my  annoyance  !     Get  thee  to  thy  home, 
And  play  thy  pranks  before  thy  intimates  ; 
Or  I  will  cudgel  all  the  flesh  from  thee, 
And  drive  thee  homeward  in  thy  naked  bones ! 
Out,  thou  flea-bitten,  verminating  rogue  ! 

[Exit,  beating  him  out.] 


SCENE    II. 

The  Same.    The  Tlirone-Room  in  the  Alcazar,  meanly  furnished. 
Enter  DON  PEDRO  and  his  PAGE,  in  poor  attire. 

Don  Pedro.    Offered  thee  alms  ! 

Page.  Fair  alms,  a  silver  crown, 

As  I  was  standing  at  the  palace-gate, 
Sunning  my  rags.    It  would  have  moved  your  mirth, 
To  have  seen  the  dews  on  Leonor's  long  lashes, 
As  she  held  out  the  coin,  and  murmured  forth  — 
"Poor  boy!  " 

Don  P.         But  when  was  this  ? 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  261 

Page.  A  month  ago, 

Ere  she  departed. 

Don  P.  What  was  your  reply  ? 

Page.    A  simple  bow.     For,  seeing  my  best  hose 
Was  somewhat  airy,  and  my  doublet's  sleeve 
Needed  a  patch,  to  keep  my  elbow  in, 
My  cap  a  roof,  to  keep  the  weather  out, — 
Seeing  that  crowns,  with  us,  are  not  so  rife 
As  figs  in  August, —  seeing  no  one  saw, — 
I  made  my  bow,  and  slipped  the  silver  piece 
Into  my  bottomless  pocket ;  whence  it  slid 
Down  my  rent  stocking,  without  accident, 
And  firmly  settled  in  my  tattered  shoe, 
From  which  I  drew  it. 

Don  P.  By  this  merry  light, 

I  'm  followed  by  a  beggar  ! 

Page.  Please  your  grace, 

I  am  the  only  beggar  fool  enough 
To  do  such  following. 

Don  P.  Marry,  that  is  truth  ! 

No  lighter,  though,  because  it  turns  a  jest. 

Page.    If  nothing  happen,  master,  we  shall  starve 
Before  we  reach  another  crown. 

Don  P.  In  sooth, 

I  am  sick  of  jesting.     Let  us  fly  my  hawk. 

Page.   The  ragged  tercel  that  takes  all  our  wealth— 
My  rent-roll  and  your  princely  revenue  — 
To  keep  in  sparrows  ?     Master,  we  '11  retrench  ; 
Sell  our  gray  hawk,  and  buy  a  hobby-horse. 
I  '11  dance  the  morrice,  and  you  '11  ride  the  horse, 
With  an  alms-pipkin  at  your  saddle-bow. 
Why,  come,  this  looks  like  living ! 


262  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Don  P.  Leave  thy  jests, 

Or  I  will  fit  thee  with  a  cap  and  bells  ! 

Page.    'T  would  puzzle  you.     Besides,  I  like  your 

offer ; 

The  coxcomb  covers  many  a  better  head  ; 
And  'tis  my  right.     Am  I  not  jester,  cousin, 
Page,  Chamberlain,  grand  Usher  of  both  wands, 
Master  of  hawks,  and  Keeper  of  the  robes, 
Purveyor  of  the  forests  and  the  floods, 
Lord  Treasurer,  chief  Cup-bearer,  the  Guard  — 
Captain  and  soldiers  —  navy,  and  what  not, 
All  crammed  in  one,  and  salaried  at  two  pence, 
In  legal  coinage  of  our  father's  realm  ;  — 
Both  pennies  payable  —  when  I  can  get  them  ? 
Answer  that  question. 

Don  P.  Thou  'rt  a  silly  boy  ; 

And  I  scarce  better,  for  indulging  thee. 
Here   comes   the   queen,   my  mother.     Look,  your 

tongue 
Be  on  its  guard,  or  you  may  lose  its  use. 

Page.   And  Alburquerque,  with  his  ugly  head 
Scheming  and  plotting  for  the  sorry  body 
That  cannot  hold  it  upright.     There 's  a  man 
Who  '11  crawl  in  hell,  if  he  may  strut  on  earth  ; 
Who  sees  our  nature  through  his  darkened  soul, 
And  charges  mankind  with  more  infamy 
Than  priests  impose  on  Satan.     Mark,  your  grace, 
Here  's  Alburquerque  to  the  life.     (Mimics  him.)    Don 

Pedro, 

Go  not  abroad  ;  there  's  danger  in  the  wind. 
Lie  not  abed  ;  sleep  leagues  with  murderers. 
Eat  not,  nor  drink  ;  for  so  is  poison  taken. 
Smell  not  a  rose  ;  I  've  known  them  venomous. 


LEONOR   DE    GUZMAN.  263 

Stay  here  with  me  ;  and  let  me  tutor  you 
That  all  God's  blessings  really  are  but  curses, 
In  pleasant  masquerade  ;  and  that  — 

(Enter  DONA  MARIA  and  ALBURQUERQUE,  behind.) 

Alburquerque.  Well,  boy  ! 

Page.    Well,  man ! 

Alb.  Go  to  !  you  're  pert. 

Page.  Not  I,  my  lord  : 

I  only  told  my  master  what  a  world 
You  and  the  devil  would  have  made  of  this, 
Had  you  but  shaped  it,  and  not  heavenly  art. 

Alb.    Sirrah  I- 

Dona  Maria.       My  lord,  leave  Pedro  to  his  page  : 
My  son  has  spoilt  him. 

Alb.  I  ;11  remember  though. 

Conspiracy  doth  cackle  in  that  egg ; 
'T  will  walk  full-feathered  shortly. 

Dona  M.  If  the  king  — 

Alb.    Beseech  you,  madam,  walk  aside  a  step  ; 
The  page  may  overhear  us. 

Dona  M.  No,  my  lord  ! 

About  my  wrongs  I  will  be  loud  enough, 
For  heaven  cries  with  me.     Would  that  all  Castile 
Might  turn  its  ear  upon  its  queen's  distress, 
Till  silence,  horrified  at  what  it  hid, 
Found  tongues  to  echo  me  !     Look  round  you,  here  : 
Know  who  I  am,  Queen  of  Castile  and  Leon  — 
Wife  to  a  king,  and  daughter  to  a  king  — 
Whose  earliest  hours  knew  naught  but  royal  state, 
Whose  toys  were  crowns  and  sceptres,  whose  young 

feet 
Tottered  along  the  carpet  of  a  throne, 


2G4  LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Or  slept  among  its  pillows  ;  who  was  taught 

To  hold  myself  a  sacred  thing,  apart 

From  the  pollution  of  humanity  — 

A  something,  stationed  between  God  and  man, 

Nearer  divinity  than  dust ;  —  then  say, 

This  fiction  of  a  crown,  this  dearth  of  power, 

This  squalid  court,  this  cold  neglect,  this  want 

Of  the  surroundings  that  belong  to  me, 

Fit  the  bare  title  which  is  mine  by  right 

Of  Heaven's  bestowing,  by  my  royal  birth, 

By  marriage,  and  by  general  consent ! 

Alb.    Madam,  I  do  not. 

Dona  M.  No,  nor  this  alone. 

Forget  my  rank,  and  call  me  only  wife 
To  a  Castilian  gentleman  ;  then  judge 
If  there  's  a  hind,  within  the  scope  of  Spain, 
Whose  amours  match  the  shameless  insolence 
Of  Don  Alfonso's  !     Sins  like  his  are  done 
Under  the  wicked  covering  of  night, 
Or  hid  in  caves  and  dens  from  blushing  day ; 
But  he  —  he  puts  his  crown  upon  his  guilt, 
And  makes  it  pompous  in  his  regal  robes, 
Sets  up  its  statue  in  the  market-place, 
And  calls  the  world  to  witness  !    These  things  glare  ; 
They  are  not  sobered  with  a  mere  regret. 
He  ranks  his  haughty  bastards  in  my  sight, 
Beggars  the  state  to  give  them  revenues, 
Commands  and  titles  ;  while  the  sole  command 
He  lays  on  Pedro  is  to  call  them  brothers  1 
You,  sir,  are  learned  in  vices  ;  tell  me-,  now, 
Is  there  his  mate  in  all  your  histories  ? 

Alb.    Your  grace,  the  actions  of  a  sovereign 
Look  not  to  history  for  precedent, 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  265 

Nor  recognize  the  rules  of  private  men. 
A  king  — 

Dona  M.         May  turn  mankind  to  hypocrites, 
Throw  down  the  barriers  between  right  arid  wrong, 
And  root  heaven's  kingdom  from  the  earth  ! 

Alb.  0,  no ! 

The  Church  has  virtues  — 

Dona  M.  Which  it  keeps  at  home, 

For  fear  their  fashion  has  run  out  of  date  ! 
When  has  the  Church  took  cognizance  of  this, 
Or  crooked  its  finger  at  the  king  or  her  ? 
That  witch  of  Guzman  —  pah  !  it  scalds  my  tongue 
To  spit  her  name  out  —  has  kept  open  court, 
More  dazzling  than  the  Persian's  brightest  dream, 
Crowded  with  suitors,  over-run  with  wealth  : 
A  place  where  honor  brought  his  golden  spurs,  — 
Naught  valued  till  they  glittered  in  her  eyes,  — 
Where  poets  sang,  where  orators  discoursed, 
Where  learning  trimmed  and  lit  his  patient  lamp, 
Where  art  drew  inspiration  from  fair  lips, 
Where  warriors   showed  their   scars,  where  gentle 

peace 

Nestled  in  luxury,  where  Fame,  herself, 
Stood,  as  upon  the  summit  of  a  hill, 
And  thence  took  flight  towards  heaven.     Ah !  sir, 

't  was  here 

The  Church  so  placidly  laid  by  its  cross, 
Its  austere  brow,  its  awful  book  of  laws, 
And  entered,  gambolling  like  a  reveller, 
With  looser  jests  than  it  could  find  within. 
Thou  hear'st  this,  Pedro  ? 

Don  P.  Yes,  with  sorrow,  mother, 


266  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Dona   M.    No,   no  ;  with   fury  !  for   thy  mother's 

blood 

Burns  hot  in  thee  ;  and  all  the  memories 
Of  twenty  years  are  smouldering  in  thy  veins, 
Against  the  day  of  reckoning.     When  thou  'rt  king, 
Dole  out  thy  mercies  like  the  summer's  dew, 
But  pour  thy  vengeance  like  the  winter's  hail ; 
And  on  these  bastards,  and  their  hated  dam, 
Fall  in  xjonsuming  fire  ! 

Page.  There  's  good  advice  ! 

Quite  motherly  and  queenly,  and  designed, 
No  doubt,  for  furtherance  of  the  general  good. 
Would  I  were  old  !     The  coming  generation 
Have  more  before  them  than  they  reckon  on.    [Aside.] 

Dona  M.    Speak,  Pedro,  speak  ! 

Don  P.  I  may  do  wrong,  perhaps, 

Out  of  the  nature  which  belongs  to  me  ; 
But,  on  my  soul,  I  will  not  meditate 
My  crimes  beforehand. 

Dona  M.  Art  thou  son  of  mine  ? 

Alb.    Beware  !  you  tamper  with  a  brand  of  fire  ; 
Look,  at  which  end  you  grasp  it. 

[Apart  to  DONA  MARIA.] 

Doiia  M.  True,  in  faith  ! 

The  fruit  must  ripen  ere  we  press  its  juice.      [Aside.] 
My  lord,  you  had  some  tidings  of  the  king ; 
Lay  them  before  us.     Lo  !  I  take  my  state, 
Queen  of  Castile  and  Leon  !     (Sits  upon  a  low  stool.)     Is 

it  well, 

Ha,  Pedro  ?     Gentlemen,  keep  back  the  press  I 
Our  loyal  people  crowd  so  thickly  on  us, 
We   have   scant  breathing-room !     Ha  I    ha  I    'fore 
Heaven, 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  267 

I  can  be  merry  with  my  misery  1     [Laughing.'] 
Say  on,  Don  Juan. 

Alb.  The  old  news  renewed  : 

Battles  and  Moors,  but  always  victory. 
The  infidel  holds  Spain  by  one  bare  rock, 
And  that  seems  shaking.     Ere  the  week  be  out, 
We  may  have  tidings  of  Gibraltar's  fall. 
There  's  little  fighting  ;  for  the  plague  has  raised 
His  spotted  banner  'twixt  the  hostile  camps, 
And  both  stand  still  before  him,  all  aghast, 
Owning  the  coward. 

Dona  M.  Should  the  plague  —  Well,  well, 

I  trust  the  king  is  —  well  ? 

Page.  ;T  was  uttered  ill.     [Aside.} 

Alb.    Quite  well,  and  confident  of  victory. 

Don  P.    Would  I  were  by  his  side  ! 

Dona  M.  Thou,  thou,  indeed, 

A  lawfully-begotten  son  of  mine  ! 
Thy  birth  doth  lack  the  charming  quality 
Of  sinful  love.     Wert  thou  a  bastard,  now, 
A  brat  of  Guzman,  thou  shouldst  bear  a  sword,  • 
And  buckle  thee  in  steel,  and  back  a  steed  ;  — 
Haply,  to  knock  thy  legal  brother's  brains 
Out  of  his  crown,  some  day ! 

Don  P.  0,  mother,  cease  ! 

This  heartless  jesting  is  beneath  thy  rank. 
Come,  comrade,  let  us  to  the  fields  again  ; 
The  fields  have  better  counsel  than  the  court. 
God's  breath  comes  to  us  on  the  straying  gales, 
And  whispers  peaceful  love  to  us,  and  all. 
There  7s  something  wrong,  something   at  war  with 
Heaven, 


268  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

In  man's  society  :  I  know  not  why, 
"But  still  I  feel  it. 

Page.  I  could  weep  a  year. 

My  jests  are  over,  for  to-day  at  least. 

(As   they   are   about  going,  enter   a   Messenger,   hastily.     Don 
PEDRO  and  the  PAGE  return.) 

Alb.   What  news  ?  —  what  news  ? 
Messenger.  The  king  is  dead. 

Dona  M.     (Starts  up.)      Ha!   ha  I      [Laughing.] 

My  hour  has  come,  at  last ! 

Don  P.  0,  heavens  I     [  Weeps.] 

Page.  Kind  saints  I 

Is  that  the  way  our  wives  receive  our  deaths  ? 

[Aside.] 

Dona  M.    Ha  !   ha  !      [Laughing.] 

Alb.  Dear  madam  !  — 

Dona  M.  Shall  I  not  laugh  out  ? 

This  is  the  hour  I  Ve  waited  on  for  years. 
For  this  I  bore  his  insults,  and  the  mock 
Of  public  pity.     'T  was  for  this  I  bore 
My  lady  Leonoras  magnificence, 
Her  smiles,  her  nods,  her  very  company  — 
And  did  not  send  my  dagger  through  her  heart ! 
I  knew  just  Heaven  would  grant  it  in  good  time,  — 
I  prayed  for  it,  —  and  it  has  come  at  last ! 
Shall  I  not  laugh  ?      [Laughing.] 

Page.  Does  not  the  devil  too  ?     [Aside.] 

Dona  M.    Pedro,  my  son,  awake  ! 

Don  P.  I  am  an  orphan  ! 

Dona  M.    So  are  the  bastards !    let  that  comfort 

thee. 
There  's  not  a  cobweb  'twixt  us  and  our  foes. 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  269 

Now  strike !    while   they  are    stunned  with   feeble. 

grief; 
Arid  let  the  blow  that  blinds  them,  clear  thy  sight. 

Alb.    Madam,  I  pray  you,  leave  the  king  to  me  ; 
I  '11  bend,  but  you  will  break  him.     [Apart  to  her.'] 

Dona  M.  Yes,  the  king  — 

All  hail,  King  Pedro  !     Thank  you  for  the  word  !  — 
I  shall  go  crazy  !  [  Walks  about.'} 

Page.  Here  's  a  pretty  school 

To  put  a  child  to  !     [Aside.'] 

Alb.  Please,  your  majesty  — 

Don  P.    The  king  is  dead !  [  Weeping.'] 

Alb.  The  office  never  dies  : 

And  it  behooves  your  grace  to  look  abroad, 
And  see  what  ground  your  kingdom  stands  upon. 
I  would  not  urge  it,  at  a  time  like  this, 
Were  not  your  kingdom's  peace  embraced  in  it. 
The  sons  of  Leonor  have  great  estates, 
Peopled  with  warlike  vassals,  and  their  mother 
Is  of  a  subtle  wit,  and  used  to  rule. 
They  '11  not  go  down  without  a  sturdy  tug  ; 
And  down  they  must  go,  or  you  cannot  reign. 

Dona  M.    Listen,  my  son. 

Don  P.  I  hear.     Let  me  begin 

My  novel  sway  by  striking  close  at  hand. 
Madam,  I  charge  you,  on  your  loyalty, 
To  hold  my  father's  memory  in  respect. 

Dona  M.    He  never  loved  thee,  Pedro. 

Don  P.  The  more  cause 

Have  I  to  mourn  his  early  taking  off: 
Time  and  good  actions  might  have  won  his  love. 
Mother,  be  decent  in  thy  widowhood, 
Or  I  may  grieve  thee. 


270  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Dona  H.  Pedro,  speak  not  thus, 

With  knitted  brows  and  gloomy  threats,  to  me. 
Thou  art  the  only  thing  I  truly  love. 
Through  all  the  sorrows  I  have  passed,  thy  voice 
Was  solace  to  me,  and  thy  growing  form 
Consoled  the  dwarfish  aspect  of  my  fate. 
Thou  canst  not  tell  what  I  endured,  to  reach 
The  triumph  of  the  hour  that  makes  thee  king  — 
What  anxious  days,  and  what  unslumbering  nights  I 
But  with  my  love  for  thee,  another  passion  — 
Sustained  by  all  I  saw,  or  heard,  or  thought  — 
Grew  side  by  side  ;  a  deadly,  blasting  hate 
For  Leonor  de  Guzman  and  her  brood 
Of  upstart  bastards  !     Render  them  to  me  — 
'T  is  the  sole  boon  I  '11  ever  claim  from  thee  ; 
Make  me  their  destiny,  as  they  have  made 
Thy  mother  their  chief  victim. 

Don  P.  Madam,  no  ! 

Her  children  are  my  brothers,  and  her  fate 
Rests  on  the  future  actions  of  her  life. 

[  Walks  up  with  ALBURQUERQUE.] 

Dona  M.    Curse  him,  just  Heaven,  and  make  his 

mercy  turn 

To  ceaseless  torment !     May  his  brothers  be 
Traitors  to  him,  as  he  has  been  to  me  !  — 
Gall  in  his  goblet,  nightmares  in  his  sleep, 
Goads  to  his  crimes,  and  clogs  to  his  good  deeds ; 
Till  restless  anguish  arm  his  desperate  hand 
With  fratricidal  fury  !     Grant  it,  Heaven  !  — 
Nay,  gracious  saints,  undo  my  impious  curse ! 
My  wrongs  have  maddened  me.     0,  Pedro,  Pedro, 
Fate  chose  my  bitterest  moment  from  this  hour ! 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  271 

Don  P.    (Advancing  with  ALBURQUERQUE.)      If  'tis  your 

thought  that  Dona  Leon  or 
May  raise  the  horrors  of  a  civil  strife, 
'T  were  prudent  you  restrained  her  libern*j  fy  * 
With  due  respect. 

Alb.  0,  yes,  your  majesty ,\' 

With  due  respect.  [Lcnyhs*<fade"] 

Dona  M.  Will  she  to  prison  then  ? 

Alb.    (Drawing  DON  PEDRO  aside.)    Besides,  I  could  not 

answer  for  her  care, 

Were  she  at  large.     The  queen  will  now  have  friends, 
And  friends  have  daggers,  and  — 

Don  P.  No  more  of  this. 

Take  you  her  guardianship. 

Alb.  As  for  her  sons, 

They  may  be  trusted  till  they  show  their  teeth. 
I  '11  have  my  spies  about  them.     'T  were  not  well 
To  start  with  too  much  rigor,  till  we  know 
What  power  we  wield.     For  harshness,  please  your 

grace, 

Might  swell  the  faction  'gainst  yourself,  by  those 
Who  now  stand  neutral,  balanced  either  way, 
And  easily  won  by  clemency.     The  mass, 
In  all  great  kingdoms,  is  composed  of  such  ; 
And  parties  feel  it,  when  it  wills  to  throw 
Its  mighty  weight  into  the  doubtful  scale. 

[DoN  PEDRO  yawns."} 

I  weary  you?  —  I  see  I  do,  your  grace  — 
Pray,  do  I  not  ?  —  I  tire  you  with  these  things  ? 
If  I  do  not,  I  miss  my  own  design.     [Aside.] 

Don  P.    'T  will   be   your   interest   to    uphold  the 

throne 
Through  which  you  rule  ;  therefore,  I  trust  to  you. 


272  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Alb.    (Bowing.)    Sage  boy !      [Aside.] 

Don  P.  Retain  the  powers  my  father  gave, 

Yet  breathe  my  childish  mercy  through  your  acts. 
I  seem  to  be  the  only  mourner  here  ; 
Let  me  go  grieve.  [  Walks  apart.] 

Dona  M.  She  will  to  prison  then  ? 

0,  bless  my  fortune,  that  had  this  in  store ! 

Alb.   Ay,  and  forever.     See  how  policy 
Wins,  piece  by  piece,  that  which  your  heady  force 
Could  never  compass.     Madam,  you  must  be 
More  circumspect  and  gentle  with  your  son. 
I  know  his  nature,  and  can  mould  its  wax 
To  any  shape  you  purpose.     But  take  heed 
Of  sudden  passions,  and  displays  of  wrath. 

( Enter  CORONEL  and  CANEDO.) 

Dona  M.    Whom  have  we  here  ? 

Alb.  Alonzo  Coronel, 

Welcome  !     What  brings  you  to  Seville  ? 

Coronel.  My  lord, 

I  come  to  be  enrolled  among  your  friends. 

Alb.    The  tide  has  turned.     (Apart  to  MARIA.)     Sir, 

your  alacrity 

Is  your  best  commendation.     Were  you  not, 
Some  time,  the  Guzman's  governor  ? 

Cor.  I  was, 

Till  duty  taught  me  where  allegiance  lay. 

Caiiedo.    Poh  !  how  you  talk !    'T  was  simply  thus, 

my  lord : 

He  flung  his  key  at  Dona  Leonor, 
Called  Don  Enrique  bastard,  and  ran  off. 
There  's  a  short  story  I 

Alb.  Its  reward  shall  come. 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  273 

We  here  create  you  lord  of  Aguilar, 

Giving  the  flag  and  cauldron  of  a  Don, 

With  all  the  privileges  of  Rico  Hombre.    [To  CORONEL.] 

Cor.    Canedo,  this  o'ertops  the  Guzman's  wall. 

[ Apart  to  him.'} 

I  brought  my  friend,  too  —  an  unsightly  thing  ; 
But,  then,  my  lord,  I  brought  him  not  for  show  — 
As  my  best  offering.     He  can  bite  and  hold, 
A  very  wolf  in  battle. 

Can.  If  that  be 

The  character  you  give  before  my  face, 
Heaven  save  my  back,  Alonzo  ! 

Alb.  I  accept  him, 

At  your  good  word,  and  will  provide  for  him. 
Who  ?s  governor  now  ? 

Cor.  Lara  refused  the  charge. 

Alb.    Ha !  Lara  ?     This  is  golden  news  ! 

Cor.  And  mark, 

The  lord  of  Lara  following  its  report. 
(Enter  LARA  and  VILLENA.) 

Alb.    Welcome  to  both !     Good  gentlemen,  your 

speed 
Is  cheerful  notice  of  your  fair  intents. 

(A  number  of  Courtiers,  Kniyhts,  $c.,  assemble  at  the  back  of 
the  scene.) 

Madam,  the  bees  are  swarming.    (Apart  to  MARIA.)    We 

have  need 

Of  faithful  men  to  fill  our  offices. 
We  take  it  as  an  honor  that  such  names 
As  Lara  and  Villena  can  be  placed 
Topmost  upon  the  ranks  of  government. 
VOL.  i.  18 


274  LEON'OR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Lara.    Thanks,  Alburquerque  !     Though  our  mo 
tives  be, 

As  you  may  rate  them,  selfish  at  the  base  ; 
Yet  while  your  government  has  power  to  stand, 
By  our  joint  efforts,  we  shall  not  fall  off. 

Alb.    Your  candor  pleases  me.     Madam,  behold, 
IIow  one  short  hour  has  changed  the  face  of  things  ! 
These  moths,  that  flutter  round  our  brightening  lamp, 
Are,  singly,  little  but  mere  silk-spinners  ; 
Yet,  by  a  skilful  knitting  of  their  work, 
I  '11  form  a  cable  that  shall  hold  Castile 
Fast  at  our  anchor.    Smile,  for  Heaven's  sake,  smile  ! 
Sunshine  costs  nothing,  and  its  gift  may  bring 
Abundant  harvest.      [Apart  to  MARIA.] 

Dona  M.  Smile  on  these,  too,  sir  ? 

(Enter  LEONOR  DE  GUZMAN  and  DON  ENRIQUE.) 

Would  that  my  eyes  had  venom  in  their  light, 

And  every  glance  had  power  to  slay  a  host ! 

You  should  not  lesson  me  in  smiling,  then, 

Even  on  these.     How  now,  thou  sorceress, 

Has  witchcraft  failed  thee  ?    Dar'st  thou  set  thy  foot, 

Insolent  minion,  in  our  very  court  ? 

Enrique.    Madam  !  — 

Leonor.  Enrique,  give  me  leave  to  speak. 

Dona  M.    What,   thou  wouldst  whine  of  love  to 

King  Alfonso, 

Gloss  o'er  thy  sins  with  lying  rhetoric, 
Arid  set  heaven  blushing  at  the  gifts  it  gave  ! 

Leo.    No,  madam,  no :    though  something  might 

be  said, 

Of  how  the  holy  law  of  mutual  love 
May  wipe  the  slander  from  a  life  like  mine. 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  H75 

Not  for  myself  I  come.     The  fatal  day 
That  took  Alfonso  turned  my  eyes  from  life, 
And  the  tame  hum  and  bustle  of  the  world. 
The  hours  that  lie  between  me  and  my  grave 
I  count,  as  one  who  waits  some  great  event 
Beside  a  dial,  and  would  urge  the  shade 
That  towards  his  hope  creeps  tardily  along. 
Dona  Maria,  it  is  not  with  you 
I  would  discourse,  but  with  his  grace,  the  king. 

Dona  M.    Doubtless,  thou  crafty  trickster,  not  with 

me,  — 

Who  traced  thy  winding  courses,  year  by  year, 
Marking  each  footstep  with  some  wrong  of  mine,  — 
But  with  the  king,  whose  unsuspicious  inind 
Needs  my  sad  talisman  against  thy  arts. 
Thus,  as  his  mother,  I  arise  between 
Thy  guilty  purpose  and  his  gentle  heart ! 

Leo.    I  have  no  purpose  but  to  intercede 
For  King  Alfonso's  children  ;  and  the  voice 
Of  nature,  pleading  louder  than  my  own, 
Shall  win  Don  Pedro  to  his  brothers.  — 

Dona  M.  Shame ! 

Hast  thou  the  impudence  to  call  thy  crew 
Of  vipers  brothers  to  my  son  ? 

Leo.  Ay,  madam, 

Haply,  if  you  were  honest  with  the  king. 

Dona  M.    Ha  !  lady,  art  thou  of  so  keen  a  wit  ? 
Arrest  her ! 

En.    (Drawing.}    He  who  touches  but  her  garb, 
I  '11  hew  to  atoms  ! 

Alb.  Folly  has  run  mad. 

Madam,  your  — 


276  LKONOR   DE    GUZMAN. 

Dona  M.  Treason  !     Cut  the  bastard  down  I 

(ALBURQUERQUE  rushesbackto  DON  PEDRO.    The  Courtiers  draw 
and  advance  on  LEONOR  and  ENRIQUE.) 

Don  P.    (Mounting  the  throne.)    Forbear!     I  am  the 

sovereign  in  Castile  ! 

And  till  your  treason  root  me  from  my  seat, 
You  who  thus  jet  shall  flourish  under  me  ! 

(Courtiers  uncover,  and  fall  back.) 

Alb.     (To  MARIA.)    Here  is  a  sermon  on  my  text, 

your  grace. 

This  headlong  course  will  run  you  out  of  breath: 
Excessive  anger  is  the  blindest  thing 
That  e'er  sought  vengeance.     Patience,   patience, 

madam  ! 

Wait  till  the  reins  are  fairly  in  our  hands, 
And  the  state  ambling  gently  under  us  ; 
I  '11  show  you  tricks,  then,  when  the  king  's  not  by. 
I  '11  strip  these  Guzmans  for  you,  root  arid  branch. 
But  you  must  smile  —  a  very  heavenly  smile  — 
Or  shed  a  tear  or  two,  perhaps,  while  they 
Lie  at  your  feet,  and  wither  in  your  hate. 
Begin,  begin  ! 

Dona  M.  Don  Pedro,  pardon  me. 

The  open  insult  of  my  fellow-queen  — 
She  who  was  reigning  while  I  staid  at  home, 
To  rock  your  cradle,  and  to  suckle  you  — 
Moved  me  a  little.     And  besides,  my  liege, 
There  are  some  years  of  suffering  on  my  brow,— 
Pray,  mark  my  lady's,  it  is  very  smooth,— 
And  some  harsh  lines  of  silver  in  my  hair, 
While  hers  is  glossy  with  untroubled  ease. 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  277 

The  rose  has  burned  to  ashes  on  my  face  ;  — 
Yet  lives  again  in  her  transparent  cheek. 
She  can  go  through  her  fingers,  and  record 
A  loving  child  upon  each  dainty  tip  ;  — 
I  have  but  one,  and  he  forgets  to  love  ! 

Don  P.    Mother,  thou  wrongest  me.     For  the  love 

of -grace, 

I  prithee  lay  this  bitterness  aside, 
Sweetening  thy  nature  with  more  holy  thoughts. 
Enrique,  brother,  I  will  not  suppose 
You  are  unmindful  of  the  love  we  shared 
In  great  Alfonso's  heart ;  nor  that  one  grief, 
For  his  untimely  loss,  together  binds  us. 
While  you  preserve  allegiance  to  the  king, 
You  shall  not  suffer  for  the  brother's  love. 

Leo.     I  humbly  thank  your  grace  ;  and  to  your 

care 
Commit  your  father's  children. 

Dona  M.    (Apart  to  ALBURQUERQUE. )   Shall  she  triumph  ? 

Alb.    Can  she  stop  time,  or  stretch  this  lucky  hour 
Out  into  doomsday  ?  [Apart  to  MARIA.] 

Don  P.  My  lord  Chancellor, 

To  your  safe-keeping  we  confide  the  person 
Of  Dona  Leonor.     And  see  no  harm 
Come  to  the  lady,  in  whatever  shape, 
On  pain  of  our  displeasure  ;  nor  such  rights, 
As  by  the  law  have  been  allowed  to  her, 
Be  now  denied  her. 

En.  How  is  this,  my  lord  ? 

Alb.    Reasons  of  state  forbid  the  liberty  — 
At  least,  the  perfect  liberty,  I  own  —  « 

Of  Dona  Leonor.     His  majesty 
Fears  somewhat  for  his  mother's  jealousy, — 


278  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Sir,  there  are  knives  and  poison  in  the  land, — 

[  Whispers.} 
And,  therefore,  gives  her  to  my  custody. 

En.    I  can  protect  her,  if  'tis  that  you  fear. 
I  like  it  not.     Don  Pedro,  you  undo 
Your  royal  mercy. 

Alb.  Conde,  be  content ; 

You  shall  be  free  to  come  and  go  to  her. 
We  do  not  mean  this  for  imprisonment. 

En.   And  so  you  gild  the  cage  !     Ah  !  sir  — 

Leo.  My  son, 

Bow  with  obedience  to  thy  king's  command. 
It  matters  little  where  I  dwell  to  me, 
Still  less  to  all  the  world.     Thy  liberty 
Is  warrant  for  my  safety. 

En.  Let  but  a  hair  — 

Look,  Alburquerque,  what  I  say  to  you  — 
Let  but  a  hair  be  rent  from  that  fair  head, 
And  I  will  - 

Leo.         Thou  art  passionate.     My  lord, 
I  must  intrust  my  person  to  your  charge  ;  — 
For,  to  be  frank,  I  see  no  fair  escape. 
Lord  Alburquerque,  we  are  not  new  friends, 
We  have  met  often  ;  and  I  understand 
Your  wily  policy  and  cunning  turns, 
Almost  as  well  as  you  who  practise  them. 

Alb.    Ward,  this  is  somewhat  bluff. 

Leo.  But  true,  my  lord. 

My  children's  welfare  rests  upon  my  hands, 
And  I  must  rise,  with  all  my  weight  of  grief, 
,To  wait  upon  their  fortunes.     Be  but  true, 
And  I  will  meet  your  candor  with  like  truth  ; 
But  should  you  practise  on  me,  art  for  art, 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  279 

And  scheme  for  scheme,  shall  meet  you  everywhere. 
I  shall  be  jealous  of  your  guardianship, 
And  give  the  king  a  fair  account  of  it, 
By  ways  you  cannot  see. 

Alb.     (Aside.)  Ha!  ha!  my  lady, 

This  looks  like  brisk  employment !  Brain  to  brain 
We  '11  fight  our  battle  :  I  '11  outwit  you,  though  ;  — 
Trust  me  for  that. 

Leo.  Don  Pedro,  many  thanks, 

For  the  great  kindness  you  have  shown  to  me, 
Now,  in  my  ebb  of  fortune.     Let  me  be 
Among  the  first  to  hail  you  on  the  throne.  — 
Long  live  Don  Pedro,  King  of  fair  Castile  ! 

All.    Long  live  the  King  of  Leon  and  Castile  ! 

[Flourish.] 


280  I.EONOR  DE  GUZMAN. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.     The  Same.    A  State-Apartment  in  the  same.     Enter 
DONA.  MARIA  and  ALBURQUERQDE. 

Dona  Maria.    SCHOOL  me  to  patience  !     Make  me 

one  of  those 

Who  pander  to  the  Guzmans'  growing  power ! 
My  lord,  you  promised  me  their  overthrow  ; 
And  while  your  promise  kept  its  aspect  fresh, 
I  waited  —  none  more  patiently  —  till  time 
Should  fill  the  crescent  which  I  kept  in  view. 
What  have  you  done  ?  —  Heaped  wealth  unlimited, 
New  offices,  new  honors,  new  commands, 
Upon  my  foes  ;  until  the  blazonry 
Of  your  additions  has  so  charged  their  shields, 
As  almost  to  conceal  the  left-hand  bar. 
This  is  your  work,  and  this'is  my  revenge  ! 

Alburquerque.     Tis   the    beginning.     You    have 

seen  a  hawk 

Mounting  the  heavens,  to  strike  his  rising  prey  ; 
When  does  he  wheel,  and  make  the  fatal  stoop  ? 
Not  while  his  quarry  towers  above  his  head, 
But  when  his  wing  has  won  the  upper  place  ; 
And  the  tired  heron,  shuddering  with  affright, 
Sees  the  sharp  beak  and  talons  of  his  foe 
Poising  between  him  and  the  blue  of  heaven. 
The  Guzmans  rise,  but  we  rise  faster,  madam, 
To  overtop  them  in  their  venturous  flight. 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN  281 

Dona  M.    Words,  words  !  you  give  me  naught  but 

pretty  words, 
And  I  ask  deeds. 

Alb.  You  '11  have  them  ere  you  think. 

Look  at  the  state  in  which  I  found  Castile  !  — 
A  kingdom  veined  and  arteried  with  plots, 
Flowing  and  ebbing,  crossing  and  recrossing, 
Through  every  corner  of  her  wide  domain. 
Here  Lara,  whispering  of  the  royal  blood 
That  came  to  him  from  the  tenth  king  Alfonso  ; 
There  Aragon,  full  of  the  sweeping  claim 
Of  its  Infante,  nephew  to  the  king, 
Your  former  husband.  —  Here  was  cause  for  strife  ! 
But  add  to  this,  a  hundred  haughty  lords, 
Shut  up  in  towns  and  castles,  with  demands 
Upon  the  crown  that  grew  as  days  went  by.  — 
Not  to  forget  the  Moorish  war,  bequeathed 
By  your  great  husband  to  his  only  son. 
Madam,  this  net-work  cramped  me,  hand  and  foot, 
Till  I  burst  through  it.     And  I  tell  you  now  — 
Even  while  I  hold  these  elements  in  check  — 
That  if  King  Pedro  die,  or  I  but  slack 
My  rigid  grasp,  Castile  shall  see  a  storm, 
To  which  mere  chaos  would  be  harmony. 
Why,  let  the  boys  of  Dona  Leonor 
Strut,  fume,  and  threaten,  if  they  do  no  more. 
I  '11  be  the  first  to  find  them  gilded  coats, 
Until  I  choose  to  strip  them  to  the  bone  ! 

Dona  M.   There  seems  some  reason  in"  your  policy. 
Arid  yet  my  — 

Alb.  Reason  !  good  lady,  were  that  all ! 

If  plain,  blunt  sense  could  compass  my  designs, 
I  'd  go  to  bed  at  noonday.     But  the  king, 


282  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

He  must  be  pleased  with  hunting-shows  and  games, 

Or  vexed  with  tangled  matters  of  the  state, — 

Talked  with  and  mystified  ;   until  for  love 

Of  present  pleasure,  or  disgust  with  rule, 

He  flings  his  crown  into  my  ready  hands. 

Then,  Don  Enrique  must  be  found  new  toys, 

Before  the  old  ones  weary.     Even  now 

He  scours  the  country,  drumming  up  old  friends, 

And  mustering  new  allies.     And  I  —  poor  I  — 

Must  rack  my  brain  for  some  fresh  dancing-jack, 

To  keep  him  quiet. 

Dona  M.  And  the  mother,  sir  ? 

Alb.    Ay,  ay  ;  I  know  not  what  her  grace  is  at. 
The  marriage  of  her  eldest  son,  I  hear, 
With  Don  Fernando's  sister. 

Dona  M.  So,  indeed  ? 

Juana  shares  her  prison,  and  Enrique 
Visits  it  daily. 

Alb.  I  must  look  to  that. 

The  Guzman  is  Juana's  guardian, 
By  King  Alfonso's  order,  and  Biscay 
The  ward's  fair  portion.    Hum  !  Biscay —  Biscay  !  — 
A  dangerous  foe,  and  a  fast  friend.     That  land 
Breeds  natural  warriors  ;  the  children,  there, 
Teeth  on  a  sword-hilt.     I  have  only  given 
Titles  and  gewgaws,  no  effective  power ; 
But  this  Biscay  is  very  solid  stuff.  — 
They  shall  not  have  it.     Here  is  more  to  do : 
Wheedle  Fernando,  threaten  Leonor, 
And  gain  possession  of  Juana.     Gods  ! 
I  am  both  minister  and  harlequin, — 
Head  to  the  state,  and  jester  to  the  court  1 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  283 

Did  not  the  king,  Alfonso,  pre-contract 
Enrique  with  Juan  a  ? 

Dona  M.  Surely,  sir  : 

There  was  some  stir  when  he  betrothed  the  two. 

Alb.    I  had  forgotten. 

Dona  M.  I  have  not.     'T  is  one 

Of  the  grave  matters  in  my  long  account 
Against  the  Guzman.     'T  was  a  holiday, 
By  the  king's  order,  when  the  deed  was  sealed  ; 
'T  will  be  a  fast-day  ere  't  is  ratified  I 

Alb.    Right,  right !     Here  is  Fernando  —  Lara  too. 

(Enter  LARA  and  VILLENA.     MARIA  retires.) 

Well  met,  my  lords  !     Lara,  a  word  with  you. 

[Takes  him  apart."} 

There  's  a  new  faction  making  head,  they  say, 
With  claims  no  humbler  than  the  crown  itself — 
Your  crown,  perchance  —  the  crown  which  you  may 

wear, 

If  Pedro  die  without  an  heir.  In  sooth, 
The  king  is  sickly  ;  and  Castile,  I  trow, 
Would  ne'er  accept  a  king  from  Aragon. 
Look  to  it,  Lara. 

Lara.  What  new  plot  is  this  ? 

Alb.    The  Guzmans'.     Trastamara  and  Fadrique 
Are  busy  marshalling  their  chiefest  friends, 
And  spreading  rumors,  that  Alfonso  willed 
The  crown  to  them,  among  the  multitude. 

Lara.    Upstarts  ! 

Alb.  Yet  powerful.     Would  it  not  be  well 

To  counterplot  among  their  friends,  and  crush 
The  seeds  of  treason  ere  they  take  firm  root  ? 


284  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Lara.    It  would,  indeed.     I  will  about  it  straight. 

[Going.] 

Alb.    I  '11  tell  you  more,  anon. 

Lara.  Thanks,  thanks !        [Exit.] 

Alb.  That  bee 

Will  buzz  in  Lara's  brain  for  many  a  day. 
lie  and  the  Guzmans  will  have  merry  times, 
Among  themselves,  while  I  look  on  and  laugh.  [Aside.'} 
Ah  !  Don  Fernando,  'tis  a  joy  to  me 
To  see  your  smiling  features  in  the  court. 
Your  sister  favors  you  —  and,  by  the  by, 
'AVhere  is  that  lady  ?  [Taking  him  apart.] 

Villena.  With  her  guardian. 

Alb.   Her  guardian  ?  —  who,  sir  ? 

Vil.  Doiia  Leonor. 

Her  dismal  prison,  to  my  sister's  eyes, 
Is  the  bright  spot  of  Spain. 

Alb.  It  is  a  pity  — 

A  grievous  pity  !     For  the  king  should  see 
Those  charms,  the  churlish  maiden  hides  from  him. 
He  must  be  married.  —  Well,  well !  — 

Vil.  Did  you  say 

The  king  designs  to  marry  ? 

Alb.  Not  to-day. 

Vil.    My  sister  is  betrothed  to  Don  Enrique. 

Alb.    A  very  grievous  pity  ! 

Vil.  Why,  my  lord  ? 

Alb.    His  star  seems  waning.     He  will  scarce  out 
live 

The  many  schemes  he  is  so  apt  at  framing,— 
Rebellions,  murders,  and  what  not. 

Vil.  Good  Heaven  ! 

Is  he  a  traitor  ? 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  285 

Alb.  'Tis  a  pity,  though  ! 

I  chose  your  sister  as  a  proper  maid 
To  bring  beneath  the  notice  of  Don  Pedro. 
In  sooth,  I  might  have  pushed  her  excellence 
Some  steps  before  the  others.     Well,  you  say 
She  is  betrothed  ;  of  course,  that  ends  it  all. 

Vil.    My  lord - 

Alb.  I  '11  not  detain  you. 

Vil.  If  you  mean 

Your  choice  fell  on  Juana,  as  our  queen, 
I  see  no  obstacle  — 

Alb.  Nor  I,  forsooth  : 

Who  could  be  worthier  ? 

Vil.  She  shall  come  to  court. 

Alb.    That  would  require  a  deal  of  management : 
For  Dona  Leonor  can  keep  her  ward, 
By  the  Castilian  laws,  against  us  all. 
Ask  the  king's  warrant. 

Vil.  That  I  will  ! 

Alb.  And,  lo  ! 

Here  comes  his  grace  to  grant  it. 

(Enter  DON  PEvnofrom  hawking,  with  a  bird  upon  his  fist ;  ac 
companied  by  ENRIQUE,  Courtiers,  Falconers  with  hawk*,  SfC.) 

Don  Pedro.  Pray  you,  brother, 

Give  me  your  hawk.     He  is  a  gallant  bird  ; 
How  close  his  feathers  lie  !  and  what  a  spread 
Of  wing  he  makes  in  his  audacious  flight ! 
There  is  a  head  becomes  its  feathery  crest 
More  than  black  Edward's  ;  and  his  sinewy  neck, 
Lithe  as  a  serpent's,  joins  his  arching  chest 
Without  a  break.     Mark,  how  assured  a  grip 
His  talons  take  upon  my  glove  !     Your  hand, 


286  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Cased  in  a  gauntlet,  could  not  pinch  me  thus. 
Give  me  the  bird. 

Enrique.  It  flatters  me,  to  think 

I  can  bestow  a  favor  on  your  grace. 
;T  is  only  quittance  too. 

Don  P.  0  !  marry,  yes  ; 

He  slew  my  falcon.     Alburquerque,  hark  ! 

Alb.    Your  grace  ? 

Don  P.       Your  gift,  the  great  Burgundian  hawk, 
Was  but  a  haggard,  after  all  your  praise. 
This  is  my  brother's  bird.     I  '11  tell  you,  now, 
How  your  Burgundian  suffered.     For  a  wager, 
As  to  which  hawk  could  strike  the  quarry  first  — 
Mine  or  Enrique's  —  we  both  cast  them  off. 
But  the  shrewd  heron  slipped  between  the  two, 
Dropped  like  a  stone,  and  left  the  rivals  there, 
Facing  each  other,  in  their  topmost  flight. 
A   while   they   paused,    and   then,    'gainst    nature, 

rushed 
Grappling   together.      'T  would   have   moved    your 

blood, 

Had  you  but  seen  the  feathered  warriors  tilt ! 
Beak  threatening  beak,  and  talon  locked  in  talon, 
Wheeling  and  darting,  striking  and  retreating, 
Like  two  brave  jousters  at  a  course  of  spears, 
While  through  the  air  their  riven  armor  fell 
In  feathery  clouds.     Now,  your  Burgundian  hawk 
Waged  battle  nobly ;  then,  anon,  he  turned, 
Turned  like  a  craven  —  had  he  flown  to  me, 
I  would  have  wrung  his  head  off —  turned  and  fled  ! 
But  Don  Enrique's  falcon  closed,  and  struck, 
Straight  through  the  coward's  gorge,  a  deadly  blow  1 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  281 

"Foul!"    cried    I;    "Fair!"    Enrique    cried;    and 

while 

We  stood  there  wrangling,  down  fell  Burgundy, 
Headlong,  to  earth  !  [Laughs.] 

Alb.  A  battle  royal,  sire  ! 

Worthy  the  great  spectators. 

Don  P.  Tell  me,  now  — 

You  store  your  beauty  in  your  country  house  — 
Who  was  the  fair  one  that  reclined  upon 
Your  window-ledge,  as  we  rode  forth  to-day  ? 
Par  Dieu  I  I  heard  strange  music  in  the  air, 
And  smelt  new  odors,  as  I  gazed  upon 
That  wonder,  sitting  in  a  haze  of  light, 
Which  seemed  to  eddy  with  my  whirling  brain, 
And  bring  a  most  delicious  sickness  o'er  me. 

Alb.    Unless   your   grace   may   mean   my   grand 
mother, 

Who  thinks  her  charms  but  ripen  with  her  years, 
I  have  no  other  female,  save  my  ward, 
Maria  de  Padilla,  —  a  fair  girl, 
As  women  go  in  this  world. 

Don  P.  Wondrous  fair  ! 

Alb.    (Aside.)     Nibbling  already  !     When  the  time 

is  come 

That  I  must  look  you  up  a  lady-love, 
To  keep  your  grace  from  ogling  my  Castile, 
Maria  shall  succeed  the  hawks  and  dogs : 
But  hawks  and  dogs  must  serve  you  yet  a  while. 

Vil.    Your  grace,  a  boon  !     I  ask  my  sister  — 

Alb.     (Aside  to  him.)  Hist! 

Wait  till  Enrique  goes. 

Don  P.  Your  sister,  how  ? 


288  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Vil.    I  must  reply.      (Aside  to  ALBURQUERQUE.)      She  is 

the  ward,  your  grace, 
Of  Dona  Leoiior,  a  prisoner  now, 
And,  therefore,  not  a  guardian  capable 
To  fill  her  duties.     I  demand  Juana, 
Both  as  her  brother,  and  by  right  of  law. 

Don  P.    These  are  high  words. 

Alb.    (Aside  to  VILLENA.)    Shrink,  shrink,  or  lose  your 
suit ! 

Don  P.    Is  not  Juana  de  Villena  free 
To  come  and  go,  without  restraint  or  dread  ? 

En.    Brother  — 

Vil.  Your  grace  - 

Alb.  Your  highness  — 

Don  P.  Gentlemen, 

This  may  be  zeal,  but  'tis  not  courtesy. 
Enrique,  speak. 

En.  He  has  a  brother's  eye 

To  some  rich  lordships  in  Biscay. 

Vil.  And  thou  - 

Don  P.    Now,  by  the  light  of  heaven,  you  quarrel 

here, 

Here,  in  our  presence  !     Don  Fernando,  think 
Where  you  are  standing ;  and  remember,  too, 
He  whom  you  "  thou,"  with  impudent  contempt, 
Is  brother  to  your  king  ! 

Vil.  I  pray  your  grace  — 

Don  P.    No  more !     There  's  many  a  door  to  the 

Alcazar, 

And  till  your  sister  may  see  fit  to  walk 
Through  one  of  them,  she  's  welcome  to  remain. 

En.   I  thank  you,  brother. 

Don  P.  Thank  Castilian  law, 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  289 

To  which  we  bow,  with  the  same  reverence 
As  does  the  poorest  subject  in  our  realm. 

Alb.    Abandon  all,  and  trust  your  cause  to  me. 

[Jlpart  to  VILLENA.] 

Vil    Needs  must,  — and  so  forth.  Inside.} 

j)on  P.  Ho  !  break  up  the  court ! 

This  scene  distempers  me.     Your  arm,  Enrique. 
I  am  not  well. 

Alb.  Room,  for  the  king  —  room,  room  ! 

[Exit  DON  PEDRO,  supported  by  ENRIQUE,  with  all  the  others 

except  DONA  MARIA  and  ALBURQUERQUE.] 

Dona  Maria.    You  '11  never  govern  him.     My  son 

complained, 
And  I  must  follow.  [Exit.] 

Alb.  A  headstrong  colt,  I  own  — 

A  very  devil  to  resist  the  spur ; 
And  yet  he  may  be  managed  by  a  hand 
That  feels  the  bit  with  caution,  and  applies 
His  rages  to  his  rider's  furtherance. 
Yes,  I  can  ride  him  ;  for  one  simple  reason, — 
He  cannot  find  his  way  unless  I  guide.  [Exit.] 


SCENE  II. 

The  Same.     Jl  Prison-Room  in  the  same.     LEONOR  DE  GUZMAN 
alone. 

Leonor.    A   change  from  my  gay  court,  a  sorry 

change ! 

Yet  what  is  life  but  changes  ?     And  would  not 
Life's  sweetness  cloy,  without  its  bitterness  ? 
The  ebbs  and  flows  of  being  keep  its  tides 

VOL.  i.  19 


290  I,EONTOR    UE    GUZMAN. 

Fresh  on  the  surface,  while  the  central  soul, 

Take  some  volcano  of  the  under  sea, 

Boils  on  forever  —  on,  though  storm  or  calm 

Rule  o'er  the  outer  and  apparent  flood  — 

Setting  its  streams  of  thought,  now  here,  now  there, 

In  purifying  motion.     I  oft  think 

That  they  whose  lives  seem  calmest  to  the  view, 

And  most  unmarked  by  fortune's  varying  stamp, 

Have  most  turmoil  within.     For,  were  it  not, 

Mere  want  of  action  would  unstring  the  mind, 

And  settle  idleness  in  idiocy. 

So  let  me  think,  though  every  thought  of  mine 

Move  with  a  shadow  of  remembered  grief; 

And  in  my  prison,  like  the  close-pent  brain, 

Be  still  the  power  that  gives  free  sinews  work. 

I  have  an  influence  on  the  world  beyond  ; 

And  1,  who  nothing  hope  from  earth's  desires  — 

I,  whose  sole  hope  beacons  across  the  grave  — 

I,  who  stand  calrnty,  waiting  for  God's  breath 

To  waft  me  towards  him  and  his  royal  guest, 

The  great  Alfonso  —  I  indeed  should  be 

A  mighty  instrument  for  others'  good. 

Therefore,  while  life  is  mine,  my  sons  shall  have 

The  best  of  me. 

(Enter  JUANA  DE  VILLEXA.) 

Good-morrow,  gentle  daughter ! 
May  I  address  thce  thus  ?     This  pretty  hand 
Was  pledged  to  my  Enrique. 

Juana.  And  there  rests, 

In  maiden  widowhood. 

Leo.  One  faithful  heart, 

One  miracle  of  nature,  in  our  midst! 


LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN.  291 

Jua.   Madam,  the  heart  is  sorrowing  that  the  hand 
Cannot  keep  faith. 

Leo.  Thou  'rt  melancholy  then  ? 

Thou  lov'st  the  Conde  ?  —  thou  would'st  marry  him  ? 

Jua.     I  said   so    once,  with   all   my   strength   of 

soul,  — • 
I  have  not  altered  since. 

Leo.  Then  get  thee  ready ; 

Thou  shalt  be  married  ere  the  sun  go  down. 

Jua.    I  doubt. —  How  can  I  doubt  ?     Your  uttered 

word 
Has  ever  carried  the  command  of  fate. 

Leo.    I  am  quite  serious.     See,  Enrique  comes  ! 
In  faith,  I  feel  a  mother's  jealousy ; 
I  never  know  to  which  of  us  he  comes. 

(Enter  ENRIQUE.) 

Enrique.    Mother  !  [Embraces  her.] 

Leo.  Here  's  one  who  has  a  sweeter  claim. 

En.    Forgive  me,  dear  Juana  !     I  have^niuch 
That  will  concern  you  both.     Your  brother  vows 
To  tear  you  from  us,  dearest. 

Leo.  And  the  king  ?  — 

En.    Will  not  consent. 

Leo.  Then  she  shall  not  go  hence. 

En.    The  king  is  ill.     A  sudden  malady, 
Of  swift  and  dangerous  seeming,  struck  him  down 
As  he  gave  audience.     All  is  in  confusion, 
And  each  man  speculates  upon  his  death. 
The  rival  claimants  for  the  doubtful  crown  — • 
Parties  of  Lara  and  of  Aragon  — 
With  factious  haste,  are  almost  up  in  arms. 
Let  them  get  up,  and  we  711  begin  to  stir. 


292  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Leo.    Heaven  spare  Don  Pedro  ! 

En.  Frankly,  so  say  I. 

Just  now,  our  friends  are  scantily  prepared 
To  push  our  fortunes.     Fight  or  fall  we  must, 
Should  Pedro  leave  us. 

Leo.  True.    He  stood  our  friend  — 

Who  had  most  cause  to  fear  us  —  with  a  strength 
That  made  his  boyish  port  heroical, 
When  the  whole  court  was  thirsting  for  our  blood. 
Heaven  save  Don  Pedro,  therefore  I     Now,  my  son, 
Should  the  king  die,  before  thy  marriage-rites 
With  fair  Juana  have  been  solemnized, 
Thou  'dst  miss  thy  bride. 

Jua.  Let  me  retire.          [Going.] 

Leo.  Come  back, 

Thou  arrant  runaway ! 

Jua.  Indeed  —  indeed  — 

Leo.   Indeed,  indeed,  thou  art  a  very  woman  ! 

[Lavghinff.] 

En.    Gen'tlc  Juana,  do  I  frighten  thee  ? 

Jua.    0  !  no,  my  Lord. 

En.  Why  dost  thou  fly  me,  then  ? 

Jua.    I  do  not  know. 

Leo.  I  do.     Nay,  tremble  not ; 

Our  sex's  secrets  are  quite  safe  with  me. 
But,  to  be  plain,  your  nuptials  are  in  peril, 
And,  with  all  secrecy,  must  be  performed 
Before  the  day  be  older.     Fashion  it 
To  suit  yourselves.  [Exit.} 

Jaa-  Nay,  now,  do  you  come  back. 

En.    She  's  gone,  and  left  thee  to  thy  direful  fate, — 
Alone  with  one  who  loves  thee !     Sweet  Juana, 
How  docs  my  mother's  purpose  seem  to  thee  ? 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  293 

Jua.    To  me  ?     How  seems  it  to  your  lordship  ? 

En.  Nay, 

How  seems  it  to  your  ladyship  ?     A  sigh  ! 
It  seems  to  me  the  summit  of  my  fate, 
The  spot  from  whence  I  look  on  happiness, 
As  on  a  pleasant  land,  from  some  great  hill  ; 
Just  when  the  Spring  is  freshest,  ere  a  leaf 
Curls  with  the  yellowing  Summer ;  while  the  fruit 
Is  folded  in  the  blossom,  and  a  sun,  • 

Rich  with  the  humid  promise  of  the  year, 
Looks  through  the  hazy  air,  and  wraps  the  whole 
In  dreamy  quiet.     Dearest,  if  our  lives 
Assume  no  brightness  from  this  point  of  view, 
Let  us  turn  atheists  ;  for  love  was  given 
As  a  foretaste  of  what  the  saints  enjoy. 

Jua.    More  than   my  ear   finds    rapture    in   your 

words. 

Ah !  sir,  this  eloquence  may  tire  some  day, 
Or  the  sweet  lips  that  utter  it  for  me 
May  keep  it  for  another. 

En.  Dost  thou  croak  ? 

Has  the  mild  dove  changed  voices  with  the  raven  ? 
Here  's  that  at  which  my  lips  will  never  tire. 

[Kisses  her.~\ 

(Enter  ALBURQUERQUE  and  VILLENA,  with  Attendants.) 

Alhurquerque.    Caught  in  the  act ! 

En.  Ha  !  sir,  do  even  you 

Break  on  my  mother's  privacy  without 
A  customary  warning  ? 

Alb.  I  'm  short-sighted, 

But,  pray,  is  that  your  mother?     What  a  blush  ! 

\_Lauyhi  ny.~\ 


294  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

En.    Is  it  a  privilege  of  prime  ministers, 
To  offer  insult  wheresoe'er  they  please  ? 

Alb.    Forgive  me,  Conde,  I  am  somewhat  gay ; 
'T  would  be  self-cruelty  to  stop  my  humor. 
Dona  Juana,  you  must  come  with  us. 

Jua.    Why  should  I  come  ? 

Alb.  (Shaking  a  paper.)  I  've  warrant  why  you  should. 

En.    Don  Pedro's  order  ? 

Alb.  Ay,  sir. 

Villena.  Sister,  come : 

You  should  not  harbor  with  this  base-born  tribe. 

Ea.    You    are   her   brother,    and   may   wag   your 

tongue 
Without  my  notice. 

Jua.  Dear  Enrique,  no  ! 

I  will  not  leave  for  all  the  kings  on  earth. 
As  my  betrothed,  and  a  Castilian  knight, 
I  charge  you  to  protect  me  from  these  men  ! 

En.    While  I  have  life.     Without  there  ! 

[Draws.] 
(Enter  armed  Attendants.) 

Gentlemen, 
The  odds  are  not  so  great. 

Alb.  Arrest  them  both  ! 

In  the  king's  name,  I  order  it !         ["'*  party  advance.} 

En.  Stand  back  ! 

You  that  come  on  so  lightly,  beat  retreat, 
Or  we  will  drive  you  ! 

Alb.  Forward,  for  the  king !       [Draws.] 

(As   the  two  parties   enyaye,  enter   between    them    LEOXOB    DE 
GUZMAN.) 

Lenor.    What  means  this  clamor  ?     In  my  lodg 
ings  too  I 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  295 

Do  you,  sirs,  claim  to  be  half  civilized, 

Or  are  ye  but  a  pack  of  wolves  ?     Put  up  ! 

Think  ye  I  ne'er  saw  weapons  bare  before, 

That  you  would  daunt  me  ?     What,  Lord  Chancellor, 

Are  you  the  foremost  in  your  own  disgrace  ? 

For  honor's  sake,  explain  ! 

Alb.  I  have  a  warrant  — 

Leo.    First  let  me  read  it ;  then  I  '11  understand 
Your  motive  in  this  most  disgraceful  brawl. 

Alb.    I  have  a  warrant  from  Don  Pedro,  madam, 
To  claim  the  person  of  your  ward,  Juana. 

Leo.    And  I  would  read  it. 

Alb.  An  hidalgo's  word 

Is  proof  enough. 

Leo.  That  very  much  depends 

On  the  hidalgo. 

Alb.      (AsUe   to   VILLENA.)        Damn    her    cunning! 

'Sdeath ! 

We  're  trapped  already.     Understand,  I  said 
I  '11  have  a  warrant  — 

Leo.  Get  your  warrant  first, 

And  take  the  lady  after.     Sir,  I  know 
Each  turning  in  that  crooked  brain  of  yours  ; 
There  's  not  a  labyrinth  so  full  of  guile, 
In  all  your  mind,  but  I  have  tracked  it  out, 
From  its  least  issue  to  its  turbid  source. 
Give  up  your  treachery,  at  least  with  me, 
And  take  to  downright  violence  at  once. 
Here  I,  a  guardian  by  Castilian  law, 
Stand  on  my  rights  as  a  Castilian  dame  : 
Now  let  the  proudest  lord  within  the  land, 
Unbacked  by  orders  from  the  throne  itself, 
Abide  the  conflict !     On  this  outraged  spot, 


296  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN'. 

I  '11  see  my  household  butchered,  one  by  one, 
Ere  I  will  yield  a  tittle  of  my  rights ! 

Alb,    We  are  dismissed.     'T  were  best  to  go  at 
Once.  [Aside  to  VILLKNA.] 

[Goiny,  he  turns  Ar/c/V.] 

I  '11  have  the  warrant,  though,  or  lose  my  head,— 
Ay,  and  die  talking  ! 

Leo.  Of  all  things  but  heaven. 

Ah  !  you  shrewd  schemer  of  iniquity, 
Look  that  the  prodigal  plots  you  send  abroad 
Do  not  return  from  feeding  with  the  swine, 
On  husks  and  offal,  to  offend  their  father, 
While  he  is  sitting  in  prosperity 
Among  his  kindred ! 

Alb.  Look  you,  I  will  have 

The  warrant ! 

Leo.  You  shall  have  the  lady,  then. 

Alb.    Heaven  speed  you !     We  are  entered  in  a 

race  ; 
One  or  the  other  shall  trip  up  ere  long. 

[Exit,  with  VILLKXA  an-l  Attendant*.] 

Leo.    Now  for  your   marriage  !     There    is   not   a 

moment 

So  small,  within  our  reckoning  of  time, 
That  is  not  crowded  with  a  thousand  checks 
To  us  and  our  design.     Some  one  of  you, 
Seek  out  my  chaplain,  with  your  greatest  speed 

[Exit  an  Alt'.ndant.] 

Enrique  and  Juana,  deck  yourselves 
For  the  blessed  rites.     I  will  forgive  the  haste 
Your  toilets  may  betray.     Speed,  speed,  my  loves, 
And  not  fine  raiment,  is  our  great  need  now  ! 

[Exeunt.] 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  297 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.  Seville.  The  Plaza  Real.  Parties  of  Soldiers  and 
armed  Citizens  cross  the  stage;  some  crying  "Lara  !  "  some 
"Fernando  of  Aragon  !  "  others  "  Trastainara  !  "  Enter 
COKONEL  and  CANEDO. 

Canedo.    HEAVENS  !  what  a  hubbub  ! 

Coronel.  I  have  stood  in  breaches 

When  the  air  hissed  with  shafts  and  javelins, 
And  rang  with  voices  of  the  engineers 
Cheering  their  comrades  at  the  thundering  rams  — 
When  furious  swords  were  hammering  horrid  din 
On   shield,    and    helm,    and   hauberk  —  when   great 

walls 

And  lofty  turrets,  with  incessant  crash, 
Strewed  shuddering  earth  with  ruin,  far  and  near;  — 
I  've  heard  the  thunder-clouds,  among  the  hills, 
Roll  as  if  some  Titanic  monster  drove 
His  ponderous  car  across  their  rocky  tops  ;  — 
I  7ve  heard  the  bellowing  ocean  'send  his  tides, 
Goaded  to  madness  by  the  hurricane, 
Full  forty  fathom  up  the  groaning  cliffs, 
Until  his  spray  salted  the  stooping  clouds  ;  — 
I  've  heard  a  woman  scold  —  heard  thee  blaspheme  — 
Have  dreamed  of  hell,  and  chaos,  and  such  things  ;  — 
But  never,  since  I  pricked  an  ear  at  sound, 
Heard  I  the  clamor  of  this  frantic  town  ! 

[Shouts  within.! 


298  LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Can.    I  '11  be  as  crazy  as  the  best  of  them. 
Castile  for  Lara ! 

Cor.  Ho  !  for  Lara,  ho  ! 

Yell,  yell,  Canedo —  yell  him  to  the  throne ! 

Can.    Now,  for  my  part,  I  like  a  quiet  fight ; 
I  'd  rather  split  a  head  than  split  my  lungs. 

[Shouts  within.'] 

Cor.   ITear  how  they  roar  I    (Enter  a  Soldier.)    The 
newest  news,  good  friend  ? 

Soldier.   The  king  is  dead.  [Exit,  hastily.] 

Cor.  That  all  ?     I  thought  the  devil 

Was  dead  and  buried,  and  his  fry  broke  loose. 

Can.    I '11  bet  he  lies. 

Cor.  Doubtless.     The  knave  's  too  wise 

To  speak  the  truth  without  some  provocation. 
Yet,  for  all  that,  die  young  Don  Pedro  must, 
If  death's  grave  heralds,  the  Scvillian  doctors, 
Are  to  be  trusted  in  their  mystery. 

Can.    Our  side  is  best. 

Cor.  For  once  thou  'rt  in  the  right. 

Lara  is  nearer  to  the  crown  than  they 
Who  start  their  adverse  claims. 

Citizens  and  Soldiers.    ( Within.)    IIo  !  Lara  !  Lara  ! 

(Enter  LARA  and  VILLES  A.,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  Citizens  and 
Soldiers.) 

Lara.     0,    curse   his   treachery !     That    faithless 

wretch, 

Sly  Alburquerque,  has  deserted  me, 
And  sides  with  Aragon. 

Villena.  His  reason  's  plain  ; 

You  're  in  Seville,  and  Aragon  at  home. 
'T  is  time  the  traitor  wants  —  time,  only  time. 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  299 

Lara.     Curse,  curse  his  baseness  ! 

Can.  Lara  for  Castile  ! 

Cor.     Leave   off  thy  yells,  and   take   to   curses, 

friend ; 

Thou  seest  }t  is  the  new  fashion.     Curse  Don  Juan 
Alonso  de  Alburquerque,  by  each  name 
He  got  at  baptism  ! 

Can.  Ay,  ten  million  curses 

Hunt  him  to  death,  and  make  him  peaceable  ! 
I  '11  swear  his  present  life  has  little  ease. 

Cor.    Is  the  king  dead  ? 

Vil.  Not  dead,  but  dying  fast. 

Cor.    Lara  for  king  ! 

Lara.  You  side  with  us,  brave  sir  ? 

What  shall  we  do  ? 

Cor.  Seize  on  the  crown,  of  course  ; 

And.  when  you  have  it  on,  let  Aragon 
But  reach  to  pull  it  off. 

Vil.  Sound  counsel,  uncle  ; 

For  were  the  crown  in  hand,  we  'd  strain  a  while 
Ere  you  should  lose  it. 

Can.  To  the  palace,  then  ! 

Long  live  King  Lara  !     What 's  his  Christian  name  ? 

[TO  CORONEL.] 

Cor.    Juan  —  thou  block  I 

Can.  Long  live  King  Juan  !     Shout ! 

All.    Long  live  King  Juan  ! 

(Enter  a  crowd  crying,  "  Aragon  !  ") 

Can.  Let  's  begin  our  work 

By  cutting  these  knaves'  throats. 

Cor.  Well  thought  of,  faith  I 

Room  for  the  king,  or  we  will  tread  you  down  ! 
( The  crowd  shouts,  "  Castile  for  Aragon  !  ") 


300  LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Can.    Ho  !  forward,  then  !  [Draws.] 

Cor.  Long  live  King  Juan  !     On  ! 

[AH  draw.] 

(As  the  opposing  parties  are  about  to  engage,  enter  DON  PEDRO, 
supported  between  ALBURQUERQUE  and  another  J\"bblcmant  fol 
lowed  by  Knights,  Attendants,  Guards,  $c.) 

Alburquerque.    Back  !  you  who  hold  allegiance  to 
the  king! 

All.    (Uncovering.)   The  king!  the  king  ! 

[Tliey fall  back.] 

Don  Pedro.  What  shouts  were  those  we  heard  ? 
Who  cried,  "  King  Juan,"— who  cried,  "Aragon,"— 
While  I,  King  Pedro,  reign  ?  [Stagger*.} 

Alb.    (Supporting  him.)  It  was  not  you, 

My  lord  of  Lara,  certainly  not  you  ? 
You  are  too  modest  —  if  I  know  your  lordship  — 
To  bellow  treason  in  your  own  behalf. 

Lara.   It  was  not  I. 

Alb.  Nor  Don  Fernando,  either  ; 

His  head  is  too  well  set  upon  his  neck, 
To  wish  it  off'.     Hey,  Coronel  ? 

Cor.  'T  was  I. 

Can.    And  I,  so  please  you. 

Cor.    (Aside  to  him.)  Hush  thy  stupid  noise  ! 

Keep  thy  thick  tongue  away  from  my  affairs ! 
Hearing  his  grace  was  dead,  and  loving  so 
The  kingly  office,  for  his  royal  sake,— 
As  widows  who  lament  a  husband's  loss 
By  marrying  another, —  we  bethought  us 
That  't  was  high  time  to  have  another  king. 
Finding  the  lord  of  Lara  close  at  hand, 
We,  boiling  over  with  our  loyal  mood, 
Cried  him  for  king,  with  the  best  lungs  we  have  — 
Much  in  tho  fishwives'  manner. 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  301 

Can.    (Aside.}  There  's  a  lie 

To  whiten  Judas ! 

Alb.  So  you  —  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !    [Laughing.] 

You  are  the  boldest  beggar  in  Castile  ! 
Pardon  these  men,  your  grace, —  because,  your  grace, 
We  dare  not  slaughter  them  —  that 's  all. 

[Aside  to  DON  PEDRO.] 

Don  P.  We  do. 

All.    Long  live  King  Pedro  ! 

Don  P.    (Aside  to  ALBURQUERQUE.  )    I  am  very  ill ; 
Take  me  away,  or  I  shall  swoon. 

Alb.  Bear  up ! 

Swoon,  and  your  crown  falls  off. 

Lara.  What  ails  the  king  ? 

Alb.    Naught,  naught.     Your  treason  has  afflicted 

him ; 

He  hides  upon  my  neck  his  gracious  tears. 
Lean  hard  on  me,  your  grace.       [Aside  to  DON  PEDRO.] 

His  grace's  health 
Is  quite  restored,  thank  Heaven  !  though  he  —  stand 

firm  !  —  (Aside  to  PEDRO.) 

Is  somewhat  weakly  yet.     Get  to  your  homes, 
I  pray  you,  sirs.     I  '11  send  the  royal  guard, 
To  scour  the  streets,  and  shut  the  rebels  up. 
My  resolution  cheers  your  faithful  hearts  ; 
I  see  it  in  your  faces.     Go,  sirs,  go  ! 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  king's  party."] 
'T  is  over,  please  your  grace. 

Nobleman.  The  king  has  swooned 

Alb.    Back,  to  the  palace  !     As  you  go  along, 
Spread  out  your  mantles,  to  conceal  his  grace, 
And  bear  him  gently  through  the  private  door. 
Should  any  question  you,  your  best  reply 


302  LEONOR   DE   GUZMAN. 

Were  to  knock  out  the  asker's  brains.     Away  !  — 
Gently  ;  forget  not,  in  your  haste,  you  bear 
All  Alburquerque's  treasure  in  your  arms. 

[Exeunt  with  DON  PEDRO  all  but  ALBURQUERQUE.] 
What  a  brave  tool  is  that  young  king  of  mine  ! 
How  he  rends  treason,  when  my  hand  directs  ! 
There  's  Lara  over,  spite  of  all  his  noise  ; 
The  other  curs,  that  only  barked  at  him, 
Have  slunk  away  before  my  bolder  tread, 
And  peace  is  slumbering  o'er  the  quiet  town, 
Dreaming  of  bright  to-morrow.     Dreams  and  hopes, 
That  steal  away  the  life  of  silly  man  — 
The  sleeping  and  the  waking  vision  —  which 
Is  idler,  falser,  and  less  oft  fulfilled  ? 
Now  brooding  Night  has  turned  the  downy  side 
Of  her  dark  wing  upon  this  peaceful  hour, 
And  all  the  world  seems  drowsy  for  repose. 
Perhaps,  to-night,  even  prime  ministers 
May  sleep  their  time  out.     I  will  home,  and  try. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Alcazar.     Enter  DONA  MARIA. 

Dona  Maria.    Must  the  whole  purpose  of  my  life 

be  lost, 

Because  a  wilful  boy  is  obstinate  ? 
Must  all  the  passions  which  my  wrongs  evoked, 
To  shape  my  destiny,  subside  again 
Without  their  natural  issue  ?     I  am  naught, 
There  is  no  leading  motive  to  prolong 
My  aimless  days,  unless  I  find  revenge. 
No  heart-struck  wight  so  ached  to  bless  his  eyes 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  303 

With  the  fair  creature  who  bewildered  him, 

As  I  to  see  the  justice  which  is  mine 

Rush  to  its  consummation.     I  have  gazed 

Upon  revenge,  until  it  seems  a  thing 

Holy  as  thoughts  of  heaven  ;  and  sure  it  is 

Justice,  not  vengeance,  to  the  eyes  above. 

Suppose  I  kill  her  ?  with  my  own  true  hand 

Sweep  her  from  earth  ?     What  could  Don  Pedro  do  ? 

Murder  his  mother  ?     Well,  and  what  of  that  ? 

He  could  not  call  the  Guzman  back  to  life  ; 

And  I  'd  die  laughing.     Ha !  't  is  a  new  thought, 

Yet  good  and  tempting.     Could  I  reach  her,  now, — 

Find  some  occasion.     The  Alcazar's  doors 

Are  shut  against  me.     I  must  think  of  this. 

Ila  !  ha  !  it  would  be  rare  I  —  with  my  own  hand  I 

\_Lauyhincj. ,] 
(Enter  ALBURQUERQUE.  ) 

Alburquerque.    There,  madam,  that 's  the  courtly 

face  I  like  ! 
How  well  a  smile  becomes  you  ! 

Dona  M.  But  you,  sir, 

Are  not  the  blest  occasion  of  my  smile, 
Your  heart  must  tell  you. 

Alb.  At  the  Guzmans  still ! 

Dona  M.    No,  no  ;  a  happy  train  of  gay  ideas 
Gathered  in  one,  and  burst  into  a  srnile. 
Had  you  your  enemy  beneath  your  foot, 
Feeling  with  one  hand  where  his  heart  beat  most, 
While  in  the  other  gleamed  your  naked  brand, 
Quivering  with  eagerness  to  end  the  deed, — 
Would  you  not  smile  ? 

Alb.  Most  likely. 


30-4  LEOXOK    PE   GUZMAN. 

Dona  M.  Ay,  you  'd  gria 

With  all  the  beauty  of  a  tickled  fiend. 

Alb.    My  beauty  thanks  you. 

Dona  M.  When  will  you  bestow 

The  vengeance  I  demand,  not  as  a  grace, 
But  as  a  sacred  right  ? 

Alb.  Patience,  a  while. 

Dona  M.   Patience  forever !  thus  you  put  me  off. 

Alb.    These  Guzmans  —  by  the  by,  well  thought  1 
I  '11  get  my  warrant.     Sickness  has  destroyed 
Don  Pedro's  power  to  battle  with  my  voice. 
I  talk  him  mad.    He  'd  give  the  whole  broad  earth  — 
Throwing  Castile  in,  as  of  no  account  — 
For  one  short  hour  of  peace.     I  '11  get  my  warrant. 

Dona  M.    What  warrant  ? 

Alb.  To  remove  the  Guzman's  ward 

Here  date  the  birth,  too,  of  your  own  revenge. 
Don  Pedro  mends.     A  month  will  see  our  power 
Flooding  Castile ;  and  as  we  rise  in  height, 
We  drain  the  Guzmans  dry.     Another  month, 
And  I  will  force  them  to  rebellious  acts,  — 
To  open  treason,  and  defiant  arms. 
Another  still,  shall  see  them  at  my  feet, 
Grovelling,  and  spurned !     I  hate  her  with  a  hate 
You  cannot  add  to,  nor  abate,  one  jot. 
Your  hate  is  honest,  therefore  harmless,  lady ; 
But  mine  is  deadly,  and  would  crawl  and  crawl, 
Through  patient  centuries,  so  that,  at  last, 
It  might  bound  up  and  sting !     There  's  my  whole 

heart ; 
Make  what  you  please  of  it. 

Dona  M.  You  'd  rival  me 

In  my  dear  purpose  ?     She  is  mine,  I  say, 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  305 

And  I  will  have  her  !     Sec  you  keep  your  hands 

From  scorching-,  by  this  meddling-  in  my  fires  ! 

Sir,  you  presume  to  take  upon  yourself 

The  part  of  principal,  whom  I  designed 

Only  as  instrument.     Could  I  suppose 

That  there  were  one  to  share  rny  hate  with  me, 

To  take  my  vengeance  from  my  rightful  hands, 

Feel  all  my  triumph,  —  by  yon  heavenly  light, 

I  'd  turn  to  loving  Leonor,  and  stand 

A  shield  and  falchion  between  her  and  harm  ! 

Alb.    Are  you  quite  sane  ? 

Dona  M.  I  know  not  that  I  am  ; 

But  this  I  know,  I  'm  jealous  in  revenge, 
And  I  will  overreach  you.     Look  you,  sir, 
If  she  must  die,  to  glut  an  enmity, 
;T  is  for  my  cause  alone. 

Alb.  Forgive  my  zeal. 

I  thought  my  hatred  to  your  life-long  foe 
Would  please  you  well. 

Dona  M.  It  does  not  please.     You  raise 

A  puny  cause,  and  equal  it  with  mine. 

Alb.    7T  is  very  strange  ! 

Dona  M.  Hate  with  a  heart  like  mine, 

And  'twill  be  strange  no  longer. 

Alb.  Hatred,  then, 

lias  jealousies  like  love. 

Dona  M.  Like  everything 

That  takes  a  sole  possession  of  the  heart. 
While  you  were  working  towards  my  private  ends, 
I  trusted  you  —  nay,  urged  you  to  the  task  ; 
But,  now,  you  rise  and  call  the  thing  your  own  :  — 
Hence,  I  abjure  you ! 

Alb.  'T  is  a  curious  light, 

VOL.  i.  20 


300  LEONOIl    DE   GUZMAN*. 

Thrown  on  the  morbid  passions  of  the  mad  : 

For  that  the  wearing  process  of  her  wrongs 

Has  driven  her  mad,  I  see  no  way  to  doubt.     [Aside.] 

Well,  madam,  take  her — I  concede  to  you 

All  right  and  title  in  your  Leonor  — 

Take  her,  God  bless  you,  and  be  happy  ! 

Dona  M.  Ha  ! 

You  \1  cozen  me  ?     I  see  it  in  your  smirk. 
You  think  me  crazy  ?     I  am  sane,  good  sir,  — 
Quite  sane  enough  to  counterplot  your  snares. 
1  '11  make  3rou  own,  Lord  Chancellor,  ere  long, 
That  all  the  craft  of  statesmanship  falls  short, 
When  its  divided  interests  must  contend 
With  one  lone  passion  of  a  woman's  heart. 
Farewell !  I  ask  no  counsel,  seek  no  aid  : 
One  of  us  twain  shall  have  a  laugh  at  this  !       [Exit.] 

Alb.    She  's  raving  mad,  I  '11  swear  it  on  the  mass ! 
Another  wild  enthusiast  to  watch  — 
Another  human  thing  to  check  and  turn, 
And  hold  and  loosen,  and  so  overthrow. 
The  Guzman  's  mine !  — Why,  I  'm  as  mad  as  she  ! 
There  's  something  solid  in  her  lunacy, 
Something  that  finds  an  echo  in  my  heart. 
The   Guzman's  mine,   for  all.     Well,   well  —  (Enter 
COROXEL.)  How  now  ? 

Coronel.    My  lord  — 

Alb.  Why,  so  was  Lara  yesterday. 

Cor.   He  's  dead. 

Alb.  Thank  God ! 

Cor.  Villena,  too. 

Alb.  More  thanks ! 

You  see  how  Heaven  is  fighting  for  Castile ! 

Cor.    Their  deaths  were  sudden. 


L&ONOR    DE    GUZMAN  30 7 

Alb.  The  less  pain. 

Cor.  Some  say-— 

Alb.    I  poisoned  them  ? 
Cor.  'T  is  said. 

-4Z6.  They  wrong  my  office  ; 

Now  I  am  minister,  I  use  the  axe. 
Your  news  is  better  than  your  scandal,  sir : 
For  it  1 '11  make  you  the  king's  Cup-bearer : 
More  such,  and  I  '11  divide  my  place  with  you. 
Cor.    I  'm  not  ambitious  for  a  crown  of  thorns. 
Alb.    (Starling.)    Right !  you  are  strangely  right ! 

The  crown  is  mine, 

The  glory  mine,  —  perhaps,  the  shameful  death. 
Right,  Coronel !  —  You  heard  ? 

Cor.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Alb.    'T  were  wiser  you  did  not.     Thank  Heaven, 

again, 
For  all  its  bounties  to  our  fair  Castile  I 

Cor.    (Aside.)  I  mar  these  sweet  devotions.     ITa ! 
ha  !   ha  !  [Laughing.'] 

That  holy  thought  keeps  wretched  company. 

Alb.    What    said    you,    Coronel? — a    crown    of 

thorns  ? 

You  are  chief  Cup-bearer  —  remember  that. 
I  must  go  watch  the  Guzmans.     Farewell,  sir. 

[Exit  CORONEL.] 
A  crown  of  thorns  !  — Right,  very  right,  indeed  I 

[Exit  slowly.] 


308  LEONOR    DE  GUZMAN*. 

SCENE    III. 

The  Same.     Jl  larye  Hull  in  the  Same.     LEOXOR  DE  GUZMAN  and 
ENRIQUE  discovered.     Enter  an  Attendant. 

Leonor.    No  tidings  of  my  chaplain  ? 

Attendant.  None,  your  grace. 

Enrique.    To  catch  priests,  mother,  thou  must  fish 

with  bait,  — 
Fat  livings,  or  fair  maidens  — 

Leo.  Shame  !  for  shame  ! 

Thou  takest  old  scandals  for  new  truths,  Enrique. 
It  is  too  much  the  fashion  of  our  age  : 
But,  son,  remember,  he  who  jests  at  things 
Held  sacred  by  the  body  of  mankind, 
Insults  the  dignity  of  man,  and  sets 
His  flashy  jokes  above  our  grandest  thoughts. 

En.    I  meant  but  little. 

Leo.  Doubtless  :  yet  thou  'dst  claim 

A  place  in  wisdom  over  all  thy  race,  — 
Past,  present,  and  to  come.     Go  forth  again, 
And  push  your  search  with  busy  secrecy. 

[Exit  Attendant.] 

Perhaps  the  chaplain  keeps  away  through  fear. 
I  Ve  spent  a  goodly  time  in  argument, 
To  overcome  his  scruples  at  the  rites. 
Naught  but  the  contract,  with  the  royal  seal, 
Will  satisfy  him  :  that  I  have  mislaid. 

En.    'T  is  the  first  mention  thou  hast  made  of  it : 
1  have  it,  mother. 

Leo.  Heaven  be  praised  !  where,  where  ? 

En.    Close,  at  my  lodgings. 

Leo.  Fly,  and  bring  it  here. 

How  blind  was  I,  not  to  have  questioned  thee  ! 


LEONOR    DE   GUZMAN".  ,°>09 

Time  has  slipped  by  —  most  precious,  precious  time  — • 
While  I  consulted  with  myself.  —  0,  fly  ! 

[Exit  ENRIQUE.] 

And  so  Enrique  had  it  all  the  while  ! 
This  comes  from  self-dependence.     Over-trust 
In  our  own  knowledge  is  an  ignorance 
More  perilous  than  modest  diffidence, 
That  doubts  and  asks,  and  from  a  child,  perchance, 
May  hear  replies  that  daunt  philosophers. 
I  searched  the  world  for  that  which  lay  at  home, 
Formed  secret  plans  to  ferret  out  this  deed, 
When  a  mere  opening  of  my  thought-pinched  lips 
Was  all  I  needed.     We  consume  in  thoughts 
That  are  the  tattle  of  the  market-place  ; 
And  our  best  wisdom,  after  all  our  toil, 
Is  but  the  world's,  in  rounded  sentences. 
Who  ;d  thought  Enrique  —  Well,  I  'in  wiser  now  ; 
An  open  heart  is  a  sage  counsellor. 
Juana ! 

(Enter  JUANA  DE  VIL£ENA.  ) 

Juana.  Madam  ! 

Leo.  It  has  come,  at  last,  — 

The  wedding-day,  I  promised  long  ago. 

Jua.    And  every  day  since  then. 

Leo.  Thou  'rt  peevish. 

Jua.  No  : 

'T  is  the  first  pledge  you  ever  left  unfilled. 
Madam,  I  love  you,  and  can  pardon  more 
Than  that  which  lies  not  in  your  power  to  give. 
Yet  if  I  doubt  the  baffled  promise  now, 
I  blame  this  prison  more  than  you,  dear  lady. 


310  LEOXOR    DE   GUZMAX. 

Leo.  (Kissing  her.)    Thou  'rt  a  sweet  maiden  !  but 

we  '11  see,  we  '11  see. 

This  prison  —  true,  it  has  perplexed  my  will ; 
Yet  even  those  doors  can  never  shut  out  hope. 
I  keep  the  freshness  of  my  mind  untouched, 
Fill  these  close  chambers  with  my  smiles,  and  wako 
A  ready  music  in  the  vaulted  roofs 
With  pardonable  laughter.     Dear  Juana, 
Had  they  not  prisoned  me,  I  should  have  sunk 
Beneath  Alfonso's  death  ;  but  sufferings, 
That  were  disjointed  from  my  deeper  grief, 
Roused  all  my  strength  to  beat  them  back  again. 
I  thank  my  enemies  for  this,  at  least. 

(Ree nter  ENRIQUE.) 

Enrique.   Here  is  the  parchment. 

Leo.  (Reading.)  All  in  proper  form. 

In  to  my  heart,  and  nestle  in  its  warmth  ! 
Once  more,  Juana,  don  thy  wedding-clothes, 
And  wait  my  call  within.     Enrique,  thou 
Stand  on  a  moment's  warning  to  come  forth. 

En.    We  have  observed  this  form  for  many  a  day  ; 
Yet,  as  it  pleases,  we  will  play  it  o'er. 

Leo.    To-day  my  heart  is  whispering  success. 

(Enter  Attendant.) 

Attendant.   Your  chaplain,  madam.  [Ej-it.] 

Leo.  Ha!     In,  in,  my  loves  ! 

The  sun  is  shining  on  your  brightest  day  ! 

(Exeunt  ENRIQUE  and  JUANA.     Enter  the  CHAPLAIN.) 

Do  not  prepare  thyself  with  shrugs,  and  frowns, 
And  signals  of  distress.     Good  father,  look, 


LEONOR   DE   GUZMAN.  311 

Here  is  the  deed  !     ;T  is  signed  by  King  Alfonso, 
Witnessed  by  all  the  ministers,  and  sealed 
With  the  armorial  castles  of  the  realm. 
Thou  doubt'st  ?     Hast  thou  betrayed  me  ? 

Chaplain.  Daughter,  no : 

Yet  there  are  fears,  not  only  for  the  Church, 
But  thee,  who  '11  be  the  chiefest  sufferer 
By  this  concealed  affair. 

Leo.  Think  not  of  me. 

If  by  this  deed  I  made  a  sacrifice 
Of  the  few  days  which  Heaven  designs  for  me, 
Think'st  thou  not,  father,  I  would  through  with  it, 
Though  every  step  were  nearer  to  the  grave  ? 

Chap.    Indeed,  I  fear  — 

Leo.  Fears  are  no  guests  of  mine. 

Chap.    Yet  for  thyself. 

Leo.  My  children  are  myself: 

I  have  no  care  beyond  my  family. 
I  know  the  weight  and  moment  of  this  deed ; 
It  may  exalt  Enrique  to  a  crown  — 
Ay,  even  to  a  crown  :  and  as  for  me, 
Father,  it  can  but  kill ;  and  if  I  feel 
No  fear  of  death,  his  common  sting  is  gone. 

Chap.    I  will  consent. 

Leo.  0,  bless  thee  !  —  Hark  !  I  hear 

A  cat-like  foot-fall  in  the  corridor.  [Drops  on  her  knees.] 
Father,  I  do  confess,  I  have  much  wronged, 

(Enter  ALBURQUERQUE.) 

In  spirit,  that  good  man,  Lord  Alburquerque. 
I  do  confess  — 

Alburquerque.     What  farce  is  this  ? 


312  LEOXOR    DE   GUZMAN. 

Leo.  My  lord, 

You  see  me  at  confession.     Pardon  me  ; 
My  sins  are  heavy. 

Alb.  I  can  witness  that. 

Leo.    Your  evidence  will  never  reach  the  court 
I  shall  be  tried  by.     In  a  moment,  sir, 
1  '11  be  at  leisure. 

Alb.  Here  's  some  villany  ! 

I  '11  try  her,  though. 

[Aside  and  exit,  dropping  his  handkerchief.] 

Chap.  Daughter,  arise  !  he  's  gone. 

Leo.    A  moment,  father, —  bear  with  me  a  while. 
I  do  confess,  I  Ve  had  suspicious  thoughts 
Of  good  Lord  Alburquerque  — 

(Reenter  ALBURQUERQUE  suddenly.) 

Ah  I  I  knew  it!  [Aside.] 

Alb.    I  dropped  my  —  [Looks  around.] 

Leo.  Wits,  my  lord  ? 

Alb.  Hum  !  Still  on  her  knees  : 

A  pious  sight !   (Aside.)  My  precious  handkerchief  : 
A  love-gift,  madam. 

[Picks  it  up,  and  abstractedly  begins  tearing  it.] 

Leo.  And  you  treat  it  thus  I 

Alb.    'Fore  Heaven  !  you  'd  best  not  mock  me  ! 

[Going.] 

Leo.  Mock  you,  sir  ? 

Do  I  offend  ?  —  Nay,  stay,  my  lord.     Have  you, 
Or  any  of  the  courtiers,  seen  my  son  ? 
Pray  send  Enrique  to  me. 

Alb.    (Aaide.)  So  it  seems 

I  have  outran  suspicion.     Should  I  see 
The  Conde,  madam,  I  will  be  your  page. 


LEOXOR    DE   GUZMAN.  313 

Something  is  wrong  here.     Could  I  trust  my  nose, 
I  'd  say  that  I  smelt  treachery  in  the  air. 
I  '11  not  neglect  you  long,  — be  sure  of  that. 

\_Jlside  and  cxit.~\ 
Leo.    (Springing  up.}    Now,   father,   haste !      J  uana 

and  Enrique, 
Come  forth  I     My  promise  is  well-nigh  fulfilled. 

(Reenter  JUANA  and  ENRIQUE.) 

On,  to  the  chapel ! 

Chap.  For  thy  sake  alone, 

I  made  my  opposition. 

Leo.  Say  no  more, 

But  get  about  thy  duties.     I  '11  stand  guard. 
Gather  my  household,  as  you  go  along, 
And  take  them  in  as  witnesses.     No  words  ; 
Words  are  the  clogs  of  action.   [Exeunt  all  but  LEONOR.] 

Ha,  ha,  ha  !  [Laughing.] 
Good  Alburquerque,  if  you  knew  of  this  ! 
0,  gracious  Heaven,  what  if  they  murder  me  ! 
"Why,  let  them  strike  !     I  've  done  a  deed  to-day, 
With  which  Castile  shall  ring  for  years  to  come. 
What  is  my  life  to  my  Enrique's  love, 
And  blessed  tears  upon  my  memory  ? 
Already,  in  my  fancy,  I  can  see 
A  shadowy  crown  that  binds  his  regal  brows, 
And  deepens,  slowly,  till  its  form  becomes 
Substantial  matter,  blazing  with  great  gems, 
And  all  the  royal  symbols  of  Castile  !  — 

(Reenter  ALBURQUERQUE.) 

Ha  !  vulture  ! 

Alburquerque.    Fresh  from  the  confessional, 


314  LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

You  re-begin  your  naughtiness.     Alas  ! 
Continued  penitence  must  pre-suppose 
Continued  sin.     I  fear  such  penitence 
Is  Satan's  stale  temptation  to  new  guilt. 
Ward,  I  must  keep  your  soul  in  stricter  charge. 

Leo.    A  man  may  enter  the  infernal  gates 
"With  proverbs  on  his  lips.     You  are  a  bee 
That  hives  its  honey  for  another's  use. 
My  lord,  is  Don  Enrique  found  ? 

Alb.  He  's  here. 

Leo.    Indeed  ?     I  see  him  not.  [Laughiny.] 

Alb.  0,  fie  !  my  lady, 

Is  childish  trifling  the  best  wit  you  bring, 
To  meet  at  our  joined  issue  ?     For  my  part, 
Being  no  ready  jester  with  my  tongue, 
I  put  my  jokes  in  writing.     Look  you,  now, 

[Shows  a  paper.] 

Here  is  the  substance  of  my  thoughts,  —  the  war 
rant, 
Signed  by  Don  Pedro,  which  I  promised  you. 

Leo.    (Reading.)  Did  the  king  sign  this  ? 

And  must  Juana  be  withdrawn  from  me  ? 
You  use  me  harshly.    Must  she  go  to-day  ? 

Alb.    Upon  the  instant.     For  Don  Pedro  thinks 
Such  wide  possessions  as  Juana  holds 
Are  dangerous  wardships  in  a  subject's  hands. 
A  treacherous  guardian  might  employ  her  wealth 
For  private  objects,  without  fear  of  loss,  — 
In  treasons,  plots.  — I  see  you  understand. 

Leo.    The  king  thinks  thus  ? 

Alb.  And,  therefore,  has  resolved. 

Leo.    A  wise  young  king!  —  both  wise  and  reso 
lute! 


LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN.  315 

The}7"  say  his  wisdom  's  at  his  elbow  ever, 
Not  in  his  brain,  where  common  wit  abides. 

Alb.    Where  is  Juana  ? 

Leo.  At  her  prayers,  my  lord. 

Alb.    This  is  a  prayerful  house. 

Leo.  I  '11  summon  her. 

Alb.    Yes,  and  at  once.     For  since  her  brother's 
death  — 

Leo.    Her  brother's  death  !    Poor  soul !  she  knows 

it  not. 
How  fell  it,  sir  ? 

Alb.  Through  lack  of  life,  they  say. 

Bring  her,  and  you  shall  hear. 

Leo.  Miguel ! 

(Enter  an  Attendant.) 

Alb.  I '11  go.      [Going.] 

Leo.     (Preventing  him.)     Nay,  nay,  my  lord,  you  '11 

keep  me  company. 

Miguel,  you  '11  find  my  ward,  engaged  in  prayer, 
Within  the  chapel.     After  she  has  done  — 
You  understand  me  ?  —  after  she  has  done, 
His  lordship  fain  would  greet  her.     As  you  go, 
Close  all  the  doors,  and  make  their  fastenings  tight. 

[Aside  to  him.] 
(Exit  Attendant,  closing  the  doors.) 

So  much  I  hold  the  church's  offices 

In  my  respect—  [Noise  without.] 

Alb.    (Starting.)      I  heard  a  bolt  shoot. 

Leo.  -  That, 

Taking  the  liberty  — 

Alb.  You  talk  for  time  : 

Your  face  betrays  you.     Cope  with  me,  forsooth  ! 


310  LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

There  's  some  vile  plot  afoot  within  this  house  ! 
The  air  is  black  with  it !  —  Ho  !  there,  my  guard  ! 

(Enter  Soldiers.) 

Search  the  Alcazar  ! 

Leo.    (Aside.)  Now,  they  're  at  the  rites  ! 

Maritumjuxta  ritum  aanctce.  —  Now, 
Juana  answers,  Volo  !  —  Now,  the  ring 
Is  blessed,  is  sliding  on  her  finger —  1 
Was  married  once.  —  Oremus,  says  the  priest : 
And  now,  the  benediction  !  —  Hold,  my  lord  !  — 

[Aloud.] 

Per  Christum  Dominum  —  Amen  !  I  cry,  — 
Ila  !  ha !  my  lord,  you  are  an  age  too  late ! 

[Laughing.] 

Alb.    Are  all  the  women  in  the  kingdom  mad  ? 
Ha  !  madam,  are  your  glances  all  that  way?  — 
In,  to  the  chapel ! 

Guard.    (Trying  the  door.)     It  is  barred,  my  lord. 

Alb.    I  did  not  ask  you  if  the  door  were  barred, 
I  ordered  you  to  pass  it.     Find  a  way,         [Drawing.] 
Or,  by  the  saints,  I  '11  drive  you  through  it !  • —  On  ! 
[Soldiers  attempt  to  force  the  door.] 

Leo.    Stand,  thou  firm  oak  ! 

Alb.  It  yields  !     Let  me  assist. 

Leo.    (Holding  him.)  My  lord,  you  shall  not !  —  nay, 

beseech  you,  sir  !  — 
There  's  naught  within. 

Alb.     (Struggling  with  her.)    Thou  liest !    Unhand  me, 

fool! 
I  would  not  do  thee  violence.  —  Off!  off! 

[Flings  her  off.] 
(A  burst  of  organ-music  is  heard.) 


LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN.  317 

Leo.    'Tis  done  !  'tis  done  !    Now  tear  the  prison 

down, 
And  make  its  ruins  monuments  for  me  ! 

( Organ-music.  The  door  gives  way.  The  CHAPLAIN,  followed 
by  ENRIQUE,  JUANA,  and  a  bridal-train,  are  discovered  within 
the  doorway,  and  slowly  enter.) 

Alb.    What  means  this  mummery  ? 

Leo.  A  marriage  masque  — 

No  more,  my  lord  —  a  masque,  a  merry  sham. 
You  're  welcome  to  our  bridal ! 

Alb.  Are  they  wed  ? 

Chaplain.    They  are,  my  lord. 

Alb.  Sir  priest,  your  shaven  crown 

Shall  ache  for  this  ! 

Chap.     (Offering  the  parchment.)     Here  's  my  commis 
sion  :   Read. 

Alb.    Curse  thee  and  thy  commission  !     Some  one 

—  Guard, 

Drag  down  that  sorceress  to  a  dungeon  !     Wretch, 
I  '11  make  you  wish  this  wedding-day  of  yours 
Were  blotted  from  the  calendar  ! 

Leo.  And  I  — 

I  kept  my  promise,  Alburqucrque.     Mark, 
I  have  outdone  you  in  your  own  bad  trade  ! 
0,  Heaven  !  —  I  cannot  reach  thee,  dear  Juana  ; 

[Stayyers  towards  her."] 

But  bless  thee,  daughter  !  I  am  sick  with  joy. 
My  lord,  pray  kiss  the  bride  for  me  —  0  !  0  ! 

[Faints  ] 


318  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.  A  Street  in  Talavera.  The  houses  hung  with  ban 
ners,  yarlands,  etc.  The  street  spanned  by  triumphal  archet, 
and  strewn  withflowers.  Music,  bells,  shouts,  etc.,  are  heard. 
Enter  a  crowd  of  Citizens. 

First  Citizen.    HAS  the  procession  passed  ? 

Second  Citizen.  Not  yet. 

Third  Citizen.  Keep  back  ! 

Your  bushy-head  is  stuck  before  my  eyes  : 
1  would  not  see  the  progress  in  your  hair. 

Fourth  Citizen.    You 're  coarse. 

Third  C.  But  honest. 

First  C.  Have  you  seen  the  king  ? 

Second  C.    Often. 

First  C.  What  looks  he  like  ? 

Second  C.  A  well-grown  boy  : 

lie  favors  your  cub,  Pablo. 

First  C.  So,  indeed  ? 

Second  C.    Ay,  he  's  but  human  ;  has  your  aches 

and  ails,  — 

Sweats  when  he  's  hot,  and  shivers  when  he 's  cold, — 
Eats  when  he 's  hungry,  drinks  when  he  is  dry,  — 
Will  die,  sans  question,  if  he  catch  the  plague, 
And  go  to  dust  the  same  as  any  here. 

First  C.    That 's  odd  !    He  wears  a  crown  ? 

Second  C.  Not  always,  friend  ; 

;T  would  make  his  own  crown  ache. 

First  C.  You're  passing  dry. 


LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN.  319 

Citizens.    (Within.)      Long  live  King  Pedro  ! 
All.    Ho  !  long  live  the  king  ! 

(Ladies  throw  garlands  and  flowers  from  the  balconies  and  win 
dows.  Musi:,  ringing  of  bells,  etc.  Enter,  in  triumphal 
•procession,  Sfoblemen,  Knights,  Gentlemen,  Priists,  Pages, 
Soldiers,  etc.,  with  banners,  arms,  crosses,  etc. ;  then,  CORONEL, 
bearing  a  great  cup.) 

First  G.    Who  's  that  ? 

Second  C.  Alonso  Coronel,  by  trade 

A  traitor :  he  shifts  his  lieges  with  his  coats. 

First  G.    He 's  the  king's  poisoner  ;    for,  see  his 

cup. 
Second  G.    That  is  a  private  office. 

(Shouts.  As  COBOJJEL  and  the  rest  pass  off,  enter  the  Grand 
Standard-bearer,  the  Lieutenant-general  of  Castile,  the  Lord 
High  Chamberlain,  the  Captain  of  the  Guard,  and  others  of 
the  royal  household,  in  their  robes,  and  bearing  the  insignia 
of  their  offices.) 

First  G.  Look,  look,  sir ! 

There  goes  the  king,  carrying  his  golden  crown 
Upon  a  cushion,  for  his  better  ease. 

Second  G.    The  saints  forgive  !     That  is  the  Lord 
Lieutenant. 

First  C.    He  must  be  honest,  to  be  trusted  thus. 
Now,  never  tell  me  that's  not  the  king's  headsman  ; 
I  see  the  sword.     How  grim  the  villain  looks  ! 

Second  G.    Why,  neighbor,  he  is  the  Lord  Cham 
berlain. 

First  G.    Is  that  the  king's  sword  ? 

Second  G.  Ay. 

First  G.  Were  I  the  king, 

I   d  keep  my  sword  and  jewels  to  myself ; 


320  LEUXOK    DE    GUZMAN*. 

For  fear  they  'd  knock  my  brains  out  with  the  one, 
To  steal  the  other. 

(Enter  DON  PEDRO,  ALBURQUERQUE,  DONA  MARIA,  Ladies,  Sft:.) 

Who  is  he  that  smiles?  — 
The  ugly  fellow  with  the  seals  and  key  ?  — 
The  king's  clerk,  ha  ? 

Second  C.  The  greatest  Don  in  Spain, 

Lord  Chancellor,  and  Treasurer  of  the  realm, 
Juan  de  Alburquerque. 

First  C.  By  the  saints  ! 

I  '11  keep  my  body  from  his  clutches.     Lord  ! 
Had  ever  man  such  wicked  eyes  as  his  ! 

Third  C.    And  brains  to  back  them. 

[ALBURQUERQUE  smiles  and  bows  to  the  people.] 

AIL  Ho  !  King  Pedro  !  ho  !  [DON  PEDRO  bows.} 

First  C.    What  little  boy  is  that  who   bows   his 
head  ? 

Second  C.    That  is  the  king. 

First  C.  The  Lord  forgive  me,  friend ! 

I  took  him  for  the  seal-and-key  man's  knave, 
Aping  his  master. 

Third  C.  You  might  shoot  more  wide. 

All.   Hush!  hush! 

First  C.  The  king  would  speak. 

Third  C.  The  king,  indeed  ! 

Wait  till  the  Chancellor  has  cleared  his  throat. 
(Shouts.     ALBURQUERQUE  ascends  a  stand,  smiliny  and  bowing.) 

Albitrquerque.    Loyal  Castilians,  in  the  king's  be-i 

half, 

I  thank  your  noble  spirits  for  this  cheer. 
His  grace  has  pleased  to  make  me  orator, 
More  from  affection  than  my  own  deserts ; 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  321 

And  if  my  speech  sound  roughly  in  your  ears, 
Blame  not  the  king,  but  say  the  instrument 
Fits  not  his  purpose. 

First  G.  That  is  sweet  enough. 

Third  C.    Soft  as  the  velvet  on  a  tiger's  paw. 

Alb.    I  do  not  pause  for  want  of  matter,  friends, 
But  from  a  flood  of  it.     'Twere  tedious, 
Even  in  your  faithful  hearing,  to  recount 
The  many  glories  of  King  Pedro's  reign. 
You  who  affect  your  country  —  as  I  trust 
All  do,  within  the  compass  of  my  voice  — 
Can  call  to  mind  the  doleful  days  she  passed 
Ere  the  young  king  was  firmly  in  his  seat. 
Which  one  of  you  could  leave  his  cottage-door, 
With  full  assurance  of  a  safe  return  ? 
Whose  wife  was  sacred  ?     Whose  fair  daughter  kept 
Her  chastity  inviolate  ?     Or  who 
Had  heart  to  lay  up  wealth,  or  gather  flocks, 
Or  plant  a  vineyard,  or  plough  up  a  field, 
Or  do  the  lightest  labor,  that  reposed 
Upon  the,  future  for  its  just  reward  ? 
And  why  ?     Because  the  land  was  faction's  prey. 
Because  the  cottage  looked  askance,  in  dread, 
Upon  the  neighboring  castle.     Because  law — • 
That  equal  arbiter  'twixt  high  and  low  — 
Was  but  a  word.     Because  your  pleasant  fields 
Were  trodden  by  the  bloody  foot  of  war. 
Because  your  wives  were  ravished  'neath  your  eyes, 
By  shameless  ruffians,  and  your  daughters  led 
Into  a  servitude  more  infamous 
Than  old  Egyptian  bondage.  —  Ay,  and  you 
Were   scoffed,  insulted,  scourged,  —  nay,  slain  out 
right,  — 

VOL.  i.  21 


322  LKONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

If  your  poor  tongues  arose  in  mutiny 

Against  your  savage  masters.     Scarce  a  year, 

And  all  these  horrors  were  familiar  things. 

0,  what  a  change  —  0,  what  a  blessed  change  — 

Has  fallen  upon  Castile  !     I  've  tamed  —  I  mean, 

The  king  has  tamed  his  lords,  destroyed  their  dens, 

Scattered  their  servile  troops,  avenged  your  wrongs  ; 

And  turned  his  nobles  to  a  better  use 

Than  plundering,  torturing,  and  murdering. you. 

Can  you  ask  more,  who  have  security 

For  house  and  household,  faith  in  property, 

Equal  and  proper  justice  unto  all, 

And  the  mild  triumphs  of  a  settled  peace  ? 

All.    Xo,  no  !     Long  live  King  Pedro  ! 

Alb.  It  assures 

His  royal  mind,  to  hear  you  answer  thus, 
And  ratifies  his  future  policy. 
There  may  be  some  who  murmur  at  the  king, 
Even  while  his  gentle  goodness  shelters  them  : 
To  them  I  say,  that  perfect  government 
Is  not  the  offspring  of  a  single  day  ; 
But,  like  the  greater  creatures  of  the  earth, 
Is  rounded  slowly  in  the  womb  of  time, 
And  brought  to  light  with  more  extended  pains 
Than  the  less  bulky  matters  of  the  world. 
Once  more,  I  thank  you  for  his  majesty ; 
Who,  when  he  's  hence,  would  ask  your  memories 
To  hold  no  thoughts  of  him  that  are  not  warmed 
By  the  dear  currents  of  your  grateful  hearts. 
Therefore,  his  grace  has  ordered  me  to  give 
A  royal  largess  to  the  suffering  poor ; 
Found  a  new  chapel  in  Saint  Pedro's  name  ; 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  323 

Rebuild  your  bridges,  open  up  your  roads, 

And  make  your  fountains  spout  with  wine  to-day. 

All.    Long  live   King  Pedro !  —  God   protect   the 

king ! 

[Exeunt  DON  PEDRO  and  ALBURQUERQUE,  bowing,  DONA  MARIA, 
and  the  others.'] 

First  C.    "T  was  a  grand  speech  ! 

Third  G.  You  understood  it,  then  ? 

First  C.    0,  yes  ;  about  the  womb  of  government 
Producing  monsters,  and  the  like.     But,  then, 
The  largess  was  the  thing  ! 

Third  G.  He  but  returns 

A  piece  of  what  the  taxes  wrung  from  us  : 
He  's  liberal  in  our  pockets. 

First  G.  Friends,  come  on ! 

There  '11  be  more  speeches,  and  more  largess,  too. 
What  a  sweet  gentleman  the  Treasurer  is  ! 

[Exeunt.] 


SCENE   II. 

The  Same.  A  Dungeon  in  the  Castle.  The  music  of  DON  PEDRO'S 
progress,  the  shouts  of  the  people,  fyc.,  are  occasionally  heard 
without.  Enter  LEONOR  DE  GUZMAN. 

Leonor.    Shout  on,  good  people  !  —  ring,  ye  merry 

bells  !  - 

Ye  jocund  instruments  of  harmony, 
Breathe  your  glad  music  to  the  breathless  heavens  ! 
That  he  who  sitteth  in  eternal  joy, 
Amid  angelic  minstrelsy,  may  smile 
To  see  his  happy  children  mimic  him  ! 
I  am  glad  the  world  rejoices  ;  for  poor  I, 
Who  sit  amid  the  embers  of  my  life, 


321:  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

Turning  its  dying  fancies  o'er  and  o'er, 
Had  almost  lost  my  faith  in  happiness. 
My  sorrows  cast  a  shadow  either  way, 
Barkening  the  past,  and  glooming  towards  the 

future.  — 

This  is  not  just.     Misfortunes  I  have  known, 
Cares,  troubles,  dangers ;  yet  some  touch  of  light 
Has  gilt  the  summits  of  my  drearest  fate, 
Just  as  the  hour  seemed  darkest.     I  have  known 
Long  days  of  rapture,  nights  of  sweet  content, 
Lit  by  prophetic  dreams  of  coming  cheer, 
And  memories  of  forgotten  happiness. 
1  have  no  right  to  murmur.     Born  to  naught, 
I  lived  a  queen  ;  unwedded,  I  was  loved  ; 
Loved,  I  brought  forth  a  numerous  progeny  ; 
And  they,  though  base-born,  only  less  than  kings. 
My  deeds  have  given  my  country  history ; 
My  virtues  live  in  many  a  grateful  heart 
That  knew  their  bounty  ;  and  my  fate  shall  draw 
The  drooping  ej'elid  o'er  full  many  a  tear 
That  falls  upon  the  silence  of  the  past:  — 
I  am  immortal  in  man's  memory.       [Shouts,  music,  #c.] 
Therefore,  rejoice,  good  people  of  Castile, 
And  give  dumb  instruments  a  voice  of  joy  ! 
You  share  a  cheerfulness  which  once  was  mine. 

(Enter  JUAXA  and  the  CHAPLAIN.) 

Jitana.    Joy,  mother,  joy! — Yet  this  is  cruel  in 

me, 

To  bring  my  merriment  to  your  abode. 
Forgive  my  folly ! 

Leo.  Joy,  Juana,  joy  ! 

Shall  I  who  love  thee,  to  the  point  of  pain, 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  325 

Not  make  my  dwelling  echo  with  thy  joy  ? 

See,  I  can  laugh,  and  sing,  and  play  the  fool, 

As  well  as  any  in  the  sunny  fields  !     [Laughs  and  sings.] 

False  lover,  if  thou'lt  not  love  me, 

Then,  sure,  I  '11  be  another's  ; 
For,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  the  world  is  wide, 

And  man  has  many  brothers. 

For,  ha !  ha  !  ha  !  the  fields  are  green, 
When  love  shines  bright  above  me  ; 

But  other  fields  may  seem  as  green, 
When  other  hearts  may  love  me. 

If  thou  wilt  not  divide  thy  joy  with  me, 
Why,  then,  I  '11  weep,  indeed. 

Jua.  Enrique  —  0, 

Mere  rapture  makes  me  stumble  in  my  speech  — 
Enrique  has  escaped,  and  sheltered  him 
In  the  Asturias. 

Leo.  Now,  be  praise  to  Heaven  ! 

A  while  ago,  I  almost  did  repine, 
Because  these  walls  were  dark,  and  yon  small  grate 
Was  chary  of  the  sunlight,  and  the  drops 
Of  chilling  water,  from  these  sweating  vaults, 
Seemed  to  be  falling  on  my  lonely  heart. 
But,  now,  the  walls  are  windows,  arid  the  grate 
Glows,  as  if  burning  in  the  central  sun, 
And  every  drop  falls  from  the  blue  above, 
Like  rich  celestial  dew.      (Shouts,  $c.,  without.}      Ay, 

shout  again, 

Shout,  ye  blind  multitudes  !  for  I  desire 
A  nation's  voice  to  tell  my  gratitude  ! 
I  knew  the  springs  of  mercy  were  not  dry, 


326  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

I  knew  God's  hand   sowed   blessings  through  the 

world, 

I  knew  this  dungeon  hid  me  not  from  him, 
And  yet  I  dared  repine  ! 

Chaplain.  Daughter,  thy  words 

Are  fervent  with  the  essence  of  true  grace. 
Hast  thou  repented  of  the  sinful  tie 
That  bound  thee  to  Alfonso  ? 

Leo.  Father,  no ; 

Frankly,  I  tell  thee,  it  is  there  my  heart 
Fights  with  thy  holy  teachings.     I  repent 
The  wrong  our  union  did  the  hapless  queen, 
The  public  scandal  of  a  life  like  ours, 
The  charter  which  we  gave  to  those  who  sought 
Excuses  in  example  ;  but  the  tie  — 
The  pure  connection  of  two  faithful  hearts, 
Through  the  mysterious  avenues  of  love  — 
Seems  something  holier,  something  nearer  heaven, 
Than  aught  the  Church  has  gathered  from  above. 
There  is  no  creed  for  this,  no  law,  I  own, 
Save  that  which  nature  whispers  in  our  ears  ; 
And,  in  her  whisper,  pardon  if  I  thought 
I  heard  the  still  small  voice. 

Chap.  Ah  !  daughter,  daughter, 

This  mars  thy  faith,  and  makes  it  incomplete. 
Thy  stubborn  clinging  to  one  darling  sin 
Will  lose  thee  heaven. 

Leo.  Heaven  judge  me  !  I  have  judged 

According  to  the  light  within  my  soul. 
If  there  was  better  light,  as  thou  dost  urge, 
It  never  shone  for  me.  —  No  more  of  this. 

Chap.    Thou  'st  never  felt  the  guilt  of  thy  misdeed  ? 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  321 

Leo.    Never,  so  help  me  Heaven !     Now,  if  thou 

wilt, 

ITcal  o'er  the  other  wounds  within  my  soul ; 
But  leave  this  bare  to  God's  anointing  eye. 
My  task  on  earth  is  finished.     Father,  come, 
And  get  me  ready  for  a  higher  life.  [Exeunt.] 


SCENE    III. 

The  Same.      A  State   Apartment   in   the  same.      DON    PEDRO, 
DONA  MARIA,  and  ALBURQUERQUE  discovered. 

Don  Pedro.    Now  that  our  rule  is  settled  in  Castile, 
And  we  the  darlings  of  the  people's  hearts, 
Were  it  not  well,  amid  our  happiness, 
To  cast  an  eye  on  mercy,  and  declare 
A  general  amnesty  ? 

Alburquerque.         Methinks,  your  grace 
Has  simply  turned  the  matter  upside  down. 
For,  by  your  favor,  as  your  arm  is  strong, 
And  able  to  bear  out  your  royal  will, 
Now  is  the  time  most  fit  for  punishment. 
Now  weed  the  kingdom  of  your  enemies, 
By  their  decay  enriching  your  tried  friends  ; 
And  if  the  vassals  murmur  for  their  lords, 
Give  them  grand  bull-fights,  at  the  dead  lords'  cost. 
Thus  says  my  almanac. 

Don  P.  My  lord,  you  're  wise  ;. 

And  to  your  hands  we  trust  our  government, 
With  good  assurance  of  prosperity. 
Yet,  surely,  there  are  some,  now  prisoners  — 
For  I  have  heard  our  castles  groan  with  them  — • 
Whose  liberation  would  not  harm  the  state. 


328  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 

'T  was  but  to-day  Fadrique  pressed  a  suit 
To  free  his  mother,  Dona  Leonor. 
And  so  far  as  my  unripe  wit  may  go, 
I  see  no  reason  — 

Alb.  But  I  see  a  thousand 

Why  you  should  chop  her  head  off ! 

Dona  Maria.    (Laughing.)     Pardon  me  : 
Was  it  because  she  over-reached  your  skill 
In  Don  Enrique's  marriage  ? 

Alb.  That  will  do,  - 

Out  of  a  thousand  reasons,  that's  enough. 
I  freely  own,  she  circumvented  me. 

Dona  M.    Which  only  proves  —  [Pauses.] 

Alb.  Well,  what  ? 

Dona  M.  That  you  were  gulled 

Less  by  her  skill  than  by  your  want  of  it. 

Alb.    Show  me  so  deep  a  woman.  — 

Dona  M.    (Aside  to  him.)      Here,  sir.  [Curtseys."] 

Alb.  Pish  ! 

Your  highness  should  do  one  of  these  two  things  • 
Either  put  Dona  Leonor  to  death, 
Or  make  her  your  prime  minister. 

Don  P.      (Laughing.)      You  jest. 

Alb.    The  saints  forbid  !  for,  ere  the  year  be  up,. 
Castile  will  be  alone  with  one  of  us. 
In  soberness,  I  would  advise  your  grace 
To  give  me  warrant  for  that  woman's  death. 
I  '11  execute  it  in  a  private  way, 
With  little  noise  — 

Dona  M.  And  little  pain  to  her. 

How  feeling  in  your  lordship  !  what  a  care 
To  make  death  comfortable  !     Please,  your  grace, 
I,  as  a  woman,  cry  against  an  act 


LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN.  329 

That  would  disgrace  the  honor  of  your  sex  ; 
One  whose  sole  motive  and  excuse  would  be 
Your  victim's  weakness. 

Don  P.  You  forget  your  wrongs. 

Dona  M.    Ay,  in  the  presence  of  so  foul  a  wish, 
I  blush  to  know  my  thoughts  were  kindred  once. 
Time  and  her  sufferings  have  so  moved  my  heart, 
That  I  would  greet  her  with  a  sister's  kiss, 
Rather  than  render  her  to  that  bad  man, 
Who  'd  stain  your  ermine  for  a  private  pique. 

Dan  P.    Mother,  this  mercy  shows  — 

Alb.  Ay,  shows,  your  grace  — 

Nothing  but  shows  —  you  hit  the  very  word  ! 
Her  mercy  is  not  real,  ;t  is  counterfeit, 
It  has  to  me  a  hollow-hearted  sound : 
And  yet  she  'd  palm  it  — 

Don  P.  Recollect  yourself ! 

Your  spleen  breaks  in  upon  your  sovereign's  speech, 
To  vilify  his  mother.     Have  a  care, 
Or  even  you  may  carry  it  too  far. 
Must  I  deny  the  virtue  I  behold, 
To  trust  the  secret  guilt  your  words  betray  ? 
You  cover  your  revenge  in  robes  of  state, 
And  ask  my  voice  to  sanction  the  vile  hag ; 
While  naked  mercy  must  be  shuffled  by, 
To  give  your  harlot  room.     Beware,  my  lord, 
Lest  these  instructions  in  cruel  policy 
Be  not  too  well  remembered,  —  lest  the  spring 
Of  impious  knowledge,  opened  in  my  mind, 
Some  day,  o'erwhelm  the  opener! 

Alb.  'T  was  my  haste  : 

Yet  I  can  show  the  motives  —  Sire,  you  frown  — 
You  frown  upon  your  faithful  counsellor  ! 


330  LEOXOR    I)E    GUZMAX. 

You  frown  upon  the  pilot  whose  true  e3re 

Guided  your  early  voyage  past  many  a  rock, 

Unknown  to  you,  who  laughed  from  the  high  deek  ; 

Through  many  a  storm,  whose  raging  waters  strove 

To  tear  his  hand  from  the  unsteady  helm, 

While  you  slept  lightly  in  your  dangerous  berth  ! 

Ay,    sire,  through   treacherous   calms,   and   furious 

storms, 

Scorched  by  hot  suns,  or  blind  with  hissing  spray, 
Weary  with  watching,  sick  with  over-toil,  — 
1  bore  you  safely.     This  is  my  reward  ! 
Ah  !  }a>u  do  well,  to  push  the  knave  aside  — 
The  rough,  blunt  fellow  whom  you  loved  at  sea  — 
Now  you  are  riding,  with  your  anchors  down, 
And  all  your  streamers  fanning  the  mild  airs, 
Safe  in  the  harbor  which  he  brought  you  to. 

Do  n  P.    My  lord  - 

Alb.      Still  frowning  !     Well,  discharge  me,  then  ; 
You  may  find  better  statesmen  in  the  streets  ; 
The  earth  must  teern  with  them  ;  or  you,  my  liego, 
Would  be  more  careful  in  preserving  me. 
'T  is  not  the  minister  whose  heart  is  wrung, 
By  this  decline  from  early  confidence, 
It  is  the  inun  !  [Jfffcts  to  wep.] 

Donn  J/".    (Aside  to  him.)    0  !  let  me  see  that  tear  — 
That  natural  wonder  —  0  !  beseech  you,  sir  ! 


Alb.    Marplot,  begone  !         [Aside  to  her.] 
Don  P.  Dear  Alburquerque,  nay  — 

Alb.    Here  I  lay  down  the  seals  and  golden  key, 
That  marked  my  office  of  abundant  trust, 
Here,  at  Don  Pedro's  feet  ;  and  may  the  hand 
That  lifts  them  thence  be  worthier  of  their  charge, 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAX.  331 

By  skill  and  grace,  if  not  by  honesty. 

[Lays  down  the  seals  and  key."] 
Lie  there  —  until  I  pick  ye  up  again.     [Jlside  and  exit.] 

Don  P.    My  lord  ! 

Dona  M.          lie  's  gone.     Alas  !  dear  gentleman, 
He  was  sincere,  no  doubt,  in  his  intent ; 
But  Leonor,  poor  creature,  must  not  die  : 
She  is  the  mother  of  thy  father's  sons. 
Thou  'It  free  her  soon  ? 

Don  P.  Not  yet. 

Dona  M.  Thou  'It  give  her  hope  ? 

Don  P.    Yes,  if  the  Chancellor  consent. 

Dona  M.  But,  Pedro, 

Thou  art  the  king,  and  can  do  anything. 

Don  P.   I  'm  not  so  sure  of  that.     Too  well  I  know, 
I  cannot  govern  this  Castile  of  mine, 
Without  Lord  Alburquerque.     Mother,  send, 
Send  to  his  palace,  bid  him  come  to  me  ; 
And  say,  his  seals  are  lying  at  my  feet, 
Awaiting  his  return. 

Dona  M.  I  '11  go  myself, 

In  secrecy  and  silence.     'T  were  not  well 
To  have  this  business  noised  abroad.     True,  true, 
We  cannot  do  without  the  Chancellor. 
Farewell !  —  Pray,  trust  thy  signet-ring  to  me, 
And  let  rne  bear  a  little  ray  of  hope 
To  Leonor.     'T  is  an  odd  fancy,  ha? 
Yet  words  of  hope  and  comfort,  from  my  mouth, 
Would  move  her  strangely. 

[Drawing  the  ring  from  his  finger.] 

Don  P.  'T  is  as  well,  perhaps, 

To  grant  her  wish  ;   for  Leonor  must  die. 
Thou  must  not  leave  ere  you  are  reconciled. 


332  LEOXOR    DE    QUZMAN. 

Forgive  some  rudeness  from  her  natural  pride, 
And  say  I  pity  her.     But,  then,  the  state, 
Or  Alburquerque,  or  whatever  it  is, 
Will    murder  her!    (Aside.)     Well,   take  my  signet- 
ring  - 

The  Chancellor  would  rage  to  see  it  go—         [Aside.] 
Would  it  were  always  used  in  such  fair  deeds  ! 
Juana  keeps  with  her  —  she  owes  me  that ; 
I  gave  Fadrique  leave  to  see  her,  too  ; 
Another  kindness  which  she  '11  thank  me  for. 
But,  then,  the  state  —  0  !  mother  — 

[  Walks  up  the  stage."} 
Dona   M.  Farewell,  son  ! 

(As  she  is  going,  re'enter  ALBURQUERQUE,  with  a  bundle  of  papers. 
He  regards  her  fixedly  —  she  returns  his  look. ) 

Alburquerque.    Well,  what  now  ? 

Dona  M.  Nothing,  my  good  lord. 

Alb.  Hum  !  hum  ! 

Nothing,  indeed  ?     You  have  a  conquering  look. 

Dona  M.    I  have  been  pleading  with  the  king  for 

you. 

For  —  hark  you,  sir  —  I  have  resolved  to  drop 
My  hate  to  Leonor  within  your  hands. 
I  am  but  weak,  and  see  I  must  abide 
Your  lordship's  pleasure  ;  play  a  second  part, 
And  leave  the  stage  to  you.     But  swear  to  me 
Not  to  give  up  your  purpose  till  the  king 
Sign  her  death-warrant.     This,  at  least,  I  '11  have. 

Alb.   You  shall.    But  I  will  have  the  Guzman,  hey  ? 
That,  too,  I  purposed.     Ila  !  ha  !  ha  !  she  's  mine  ! 

[La  ugh  iny.] 

Dona  M.    You  are  not  generous. 


LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN.  333 

Alb.   (Laughing.)  Ha!  ha!  why,  no  : 

I  like  a  triumph. 

Dona  M.  Pray,  address  the  king  : 

He  7s  ripe  to  welcome  you. 

Alb.    (Laughing.)  Ila  !  ha !  7t  was  rare  ! 

A  woman  rival  me  !  {Turns  towards  DON  PEDRO.] 

Dona  M.    (Aside.)     And  conquer  you  ! 
Now  for  my  swoop  of  vengeance  ! 

(As  ALBURQUERQUE  slowly  approaches  DON  PEDRO,  DONA  MARIA 
steals  off.) 

Don  P.  Welcome  !     Nay, 

Do  not  hold  off,  but  take  your  seals  again. 

Alb.    My   liege,    you    misconceive    me.     I   have 

brought 

The  papers,  of  most  pressing  consequence, 
Which  lay  beneath  the  judgment  of  my  eye. 
The  man  who  holds  my  place  as  minister 
Will  get  some  headaches  over  these,  I  trow ! 
They  are  of  urgent  moment  —  though  I  have 
A  wain-load  waiting  at  the  palace-gate  — 
And  so  I  brought  them  first.     .For,  notice,  sire, 

[Going  over  the  papers  rapidly.] 
This  is  a  plan  for  rating  the  poll-tax. 
This  is  a  paper  on  the  custom-dues 
Established  by  Navarre.     This,  from  Biscay, 
Begging  their  English  league  may  be  confirmed. 
Here  's  a  petition  from  the  clergymen  — 
Long  articles,  in  number  twenty-one  — 
A  most  involved  and  cunning"  document. 
Here  's  one  on  criminal  procedure  ;  this 
Needs  instant  reformation.     Here,  the  salt-pits, — 
A  question  to  be  managed  dexterously. 


$34  LEOXOR    DE    GUZMAN. 


!  —  wool  —  wine  —  taxes  —  taxes  —  taxes..  — 

This 

jfs  the  projected  treaty  with  Navarre. 
A.li  !  here  is  business  —  here  is  food  for  thought  ! 
^or,  sire,  I  hold  that  Aragon  — 

Don  P.  Good  heavens  ! 

I  nothing  know  of  this  ! 

Alb.  Let  me  explain. 

The  Cortes  that  will  meet  — 

Don  P.  Forbear,  forbear  ! 

On  your  allegiance,  I  command  you,  hold  ! 
You  drive  me  frantic  with  the  catalogue  ; 
Spare  me  the  explanation.     Take  your  seals, 
And  end  these  matters  in  your  own  good  way. 
Alb.   Forgive  me,  sire. 
Don  P.  You  do  not  love  me. 

Alb.  Yes, 

Most  dearly,  sire  ;  but  Leonor,  my  foe, 
Has  got  between  me  and  your  confidence. 

Don  P.    In  Heaven's  name,  take  her,  and  perform 

your  will  ; 

But,  pray,  take  up  your  seals  and  treasury-key  ! 
AU).     (Running  over  the  papers.)     Ay,  here  's  the  war 
rant.     Sign,  your  grace. 

[Puts  a  pen  in  his  hand.] 

Don  P.    (Writing.)  'T  is  done. 

Alb.   And  I  resume  my  seals  and  key.     (Picks  them 

up.)    My  liege, 

Lend  me  your  signet  :  't  is  a  private  warrant. 
Don  P.    I  have  it  not. 

Alb.  Indeed  ?     I  cautioned  you 

Never  to  part  with  it,  except  to  me. 
Who  has  it,  sire  ? 


LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN.  335 

Don  P.  My  mother. 

Alb.  Horrible ! 

The  devil 's  rampant  in  Castile,  I  think  ! 
That  ring  bears  absolute  command  with  it. 
0  !  sire,  you  sealed  the  fate  of  Dona  Leonor 
An  hour  before  you  thought.  [Going.] 

Don  P.  Stay,  Chancellor  ! 

Where  are  you  going  ? 

Alb.  To  the  Guzman's  cell. 

Heaven  grant  I  be  in  time  ! 

Don  P.  For  what,  my  lord  ? 

Alb.    To  stay  your  mother's  hand,  before  it  reeks 
With  Leonor  de  Guzman's  blood. 

Don  P.  0  !  0  !  — 

0  !  terrible  conjecture  !     Dare  not  think  — • 

Alb.    Abide  the  issue,  and  you  '11  think  with  me. 
The  subtle  monster  !  how  she  smiled  and  bowed, 
And  begged  revenge  from  me,  and  stole  away, 
With  the  damned  purpose  packing  her  hot  heart 
Until  it  almost  burst !     0  !  women,  women  ! 
Turn  you  to  devils,  and  the  ancient  fiends 
Shall  stand  aghast  with  horror  !     'Sdeath!  I  dream, 

1  dream,  while  she  's   at  work.     (Aside.)     Farewell, 

your  grace  ! 
The  woman  has  cajoled  me,  as  I  live  ! 

[Aside  and  exit.] 

Don  P.    I  '11  not  believe  it,  till  the  frightful  deed 
Make  her  as  odious  as  the  thought  of  it. 
Never!  'tis  monstrous!     And  the  Chancellor 
Outdoes  suspicion  in  suspecting  it.  [Exit.] 


336  LEONOR    DE    GUZMAN. 


SCENE  IV. 

The  Same.     Jl  Dungeon  in  the  Same.     LEONOR  DE  GUZMAN  dis 
covered. 

Leonor.    I    cannot   master   them :    these   gloomy 

thoughts 

Crowd  and  bewilder  reason.     If  a  voice 
Had  cried  from  heaven,  Thy  latest  hour  has  come, 
I  could  not  more  believe  it.     Can  the  soul 
Warn  its  dear  body  of  their  sad  divorce, 
Ere  death  confront  them  ?     Or  am  I  the  fool 
Of  dreadful  fancies,  nourished  in  the  dark 
Of  this  detested  prison  ?     Bounteous  Heaven, 
If  yonder  sun,  that,  like  a  traveller, 
Pauses  upon  the  boundaries  of  his  land, 
To  take  a  survey  of  the  things  he  loves, 
Shall  ne'er  return  to  me, —  grant  one  last  boon  I 
That  I  may  calmly  lapse  into  thy  arms, 
With  time  to  think  of  thy  beneficence  ; 
And  not  be  hurried  to  the  judgment-seat, 
By  thy  grim  officer,  appalling  Death, 
Crying  against  the  justice  of  my  doom. 
I  fear  thee  not,  0  Death  !     The  grave,  the  worm, 
The  noisome  process  of  a  slow  decay, 
Were  naught  to  me,  if  being  ended  there, 
And  peace  closed  up  the  dying  lids  for  aye. 
But,  0  !  the  terrors  that  a  sinful  soul, 
Bursting  its  slumber  at  the  Archangel's  trump, 
Must  feel  when  it  remembers  its  last  act, 
Ere  it  lay  down  to  sleep,  was  guilty  fear, 
That  tugged  and  wrestled  with  its  Maker's  will  ! 
0  watchful  Heaven,  if  my  poor  destiny 


LEONOR   DE   GUZMAN.  33T 

Have  o'er  engaged  the  service  of  thy  thoughts, 
Grant  me  my  prayer  !     And,  as  my  latter  days 
Are  full  of  frowns  and  dreadful  threatenings, 
Smile  at  the  last,  and  round  my  closing  hours 
With  all  the  bounties  thou  7st  withheld  so  long ! 
I  do  not  murmur,  Lord,  —  I  do  not  ask, 
While  all  are  taken,  I  alone  should  stay  ; 
I  would  but  choose  my  way  of  going  hence, 
Not  as  a  voyager,  as  a  suppliant. 

(Enter  JUANA  and  FADRIQUE.) 

Fadrique.    Mother  !  [Embraces  her.] 

Leo.  My  son  !    Sure  Heaven  has  re-begun 

Its  broken  blessings.     But  how  cam'st  thou  here  ? 
Where  is  Enrique  ?  —  hast  thou  heard  from  him  ? 
They  tell  me  he  has  fled  to  Portugal. 
And  Tello,  too  ?  —  and  all  the  little  ones 
Who  call  me  mother  ?     Stay,  Fadrique,  stay  ! 
Answer  no  questions  till  I  look  at  thee. 
How  thou  hast  grown  !  —  Juana,  has  he  not  ?  — 
An  inch  or  more.     Much  like  thy  father,  too  : 
His  breadth  of  shoulder,  and  his  girth  of  che«t, 
And  the  fixed  eye  that  looked  through  coming  years, 
So  like  a  prophet's.     Now,  the  news,  the  news  ! 
Thou  seest  they  keep  me  from  it  in  this  cell. 
Here  time  is  stagnant ;  the  vast  tides  of  life 
Flow  by  yon  loop-hole,  yet  no  ripple  comes 
To  break  the  calm  in  which  I  idly  sleep. 
I  am  a  foolish  woman,  for  I  think 
That  I  am  weeping.  [Weeps."} 

Fad.  Mother,  do  not  grieve  I 

Enrique,  and  my  brothers,  are  quite  safe  ; 
And,  as  for  me,  I  blush  to  recollect, 
oo 


338  LEOXOR    DE  GUZMAN. 

IIow  kind  thy  enemies  have  been  to  me. 

Be  of  good  cheer :  I  saw  the  king-  to-day, 

And  found  his  spirit  was  inclined  to  be 

Most  kindly  towards  thee.     He.  by  special  grace, 

Sends  me,  as  earnest  for  his  good  intents. 

J nana.    Your  hard  imprisonment  is  well-nigh  o'er. 

Leo.    I  know  it,  dear  Juana.     Days  ago  — 
But  more  to-day  than  any  former  time  — 
I  had  undoubted  notice. 

Jtia.  That  is  strange  ! 

And  yet  you  told  me  not. 

Leo.  I  could  not  then. 

The    words    seemed    doubtful.      They    are    plainer 

now,  — 
Plainer  and  plainer,  as  the  moments  fly. 

Fad.    What  mean'st  thou,  mother  ? 

Leo.  This  :  if  one  should  say  — 

One  of  the  playmates  of  my  childhood  —  Why, 
Why  do  my  thoughts  run  backward  to  their  source, 
Keeping  my  childhood  ever  in  my  sight  ? 

Fad.    I  really  know  not.    Thou  began'st  to  say  ?  — 

Leo.    0,  yes.     If  one  should  ask  me,  "  Leonor, 
Where  wilt  thou  be  to-morrow  ?  "  I  'd  reply, 
In  heaven,  beloved ;  and  feel  I  spoke  strict  truth. 

Fad.    Confinement  has  unstrung  thy  mind.    Alas  ! 
Who  put  these  dreary  notions  in  thy  head  ? 

Leo.    Why,  so  I  ask  ;  and  shake  my  heavy  brain, 
And  look  around  for  comfort.     Naught  replies  ; 
And  once  again  my  lonely  spirit  sinks 
Beneath  the  pressure  of  a  dismal  doom. 

Fad.    'T  is    the    dark    hour   before    the    morning 
breaks. 

Leo.    Ay,  and  the  morning  breaks  in  heaven. 


LEONOR    DE   GUZMAN.  339 

(DONA  MARIA  appears  at  the  door,  looks  in,  and  retires.) 

My  son, 

Dost  thou  believe  the  spirit  can  detect 
The  presence  of  things  hurtful  ?     For,  just  now, 
I  felt  as  if  the  shadow  of  death's  wing 
Passed  over  me,  and  chilled  me  to  the  soul. 

[Shudder*.] 
Fad.   Dear  mother,  hear  — 

(Enter  an  Attendant.) 

Attendant.  My  lord,  the  king  desires 

Your  instant  presence. 

Fad.  But  a  moment  more. 

Alt.   My  orders  bade  you  speed. 

Leo.  Kings  never  wait. 

Go,  my  Fadrique  ;  it  may  mar  you  else. 

Fad.   Let  it ;  I  care  not. 

Leo.  But  I  do,  my  son. 

I  may  behold  thee,  though  thou  seest  not  me, 
Looking  adown  the  sunny  depth  of  heaven 
Upon  this  troubled  earth.     A  last  farewell ! 
And  tell  Enrique,  when  he'  s  king  — 

Fad.  He  's  king  ! 

Leo.   I  had  it  in  a  vision,  and  't  will  be. 

Fad.    Thou  art  the  plaything  of  thy  fantasy. 
Farewell !  —  Yet  stay  a  moment.  — 

Dona  Maria.  (Without.)  Don  Fadrique  ! 

Fad.    JT  is  the  king's  voice. 

Leo.  Or  one  that  mimics  it : 

Yet  go.  — That  voice  was  terrible  to  me.          [Aside.] 

Fad.   Farewell !  until  we  meet. 

Leo.  In  heaven. 

[Embraces  him.] 


340  LEONOR   DE   GUZMAN. 

Fad.  Farewell!  [Exit.-] 

Leo.    I  Ve    looked   my   last   upon   him !     Gentle 

Heaven, 

Withhold  the  blow  no  longer  !  —  Strike,  at  once, 
Before  my  coward  fancies  make  me  rave  ! 
Jua.    Dear  mother,  thou  art  ill. 

(Enter  DONA  MARIA,  masked  and  cloaked,  with  Attendants,  also 
disguised. ) 

Leo.  My  prayer  is  answered. 

Jua.    Who  are  these  masks  ? 

Dona  Maria.  Leonor  de  Guzman,  hark  I 

Leo.    Maria  de  Portugal,  I  listen. 

Dona  M.  Ha  ! 

Thou  know'st  me,  then  ? 

Leo.  I  pray  you,  drop  your  mask  ; 

It  frightens  me,  yet  does  not  hide  your  face. 

Dona  M.    Behold  my  face,  and  let  it  drive  thee 

mad!  [Unmasking.] 

Seest  thou  these  furrows  on  my  youthful  brow, 
This  net-work  web  of  scars  and  crooked  lines  ? 
Seest  thou  these  grizzled  locks  —  these  withered 

hands, 

Pinched  by  the  grip  of  misery  —  this  low  stoop, 
That  bears  the  burden  of  a  thousand  cares  — 
These  tear-scorched  eyes  —  this  breast,  a  home  for 

sighs 

And  quivering  inspirations  ?  —  Dost  thou  know 
The  heart  within,  the  lonely  heart,  that  aches 
At  each  pulsation  ?     This  is  all  thy  work, 
And  thou  shouldst  know  it ! 

Leo.  ITad  you  loved  the  king  — 


LEOXOR    DE   GUZMAN.  341 

Dona  If.    Iladst  thou  not  lied,  as  thou  art  lying 

now, 

He  might  have  loved  me.     Love  him !     Did  I  not? 
With  passions  to  have  burst  thy  puny  heart, 
Iladst  thou  but  felt  them.     If  they  turned  to  gall, 
And  poisoned  heart  and  brain,  who  was  to  blame  — • 
I,  or  thou,  wanton  ?     Men  have  called  thce  fair, 
Blaspheming  sense,  by  saying  thou  wert  born 
To  prove  how  plain  the  touch  of  heaven  might  show 
In  earthly  clay  ;  and  they  have  said  thy  form 
Was  a  poor  casket  for  thy  richer  mind  : 
Now,  in  thy  wisdom,  why  have  I  come  here  ? 

Leo.    Perhaps,  to  slay  me. 

Dona  M.  Thou  hast  hit  the  mark 

With  thy  first  shaft. 

Jaa.    (Kneeling  to  DONA  MARIA.)     0,   madam  —  please 
your  grace !  — 

Dona  M.    Back,  bastard's  drudge  !    Prepare  to  die. 

Leo.  I  have : 

My  life  has  been  one  act  of  preparation. 

Dona  M.    Thou  sweet-faced  hypocrite  —  thou  who 

hast  been 

The  minion  of  man's  passions  —  thou  prepare, 
By  such  a  life,  to  brazen  heavenly  wrath  ! 
What  dost  thou  fancy  heaven  ? 

Leo.  A  blessed  place, 

Where  the  sincerely  penitent  may  dwell, 
Quite  purified  through  mercy. 

Dona  M.  Purified  ! 

Hast  thou  repented  ? 

Leo.  You  have  given  me  time, 

Here,  in  my  prison,  through  the  long,  long  nights, 


312  LEOXOK    DE   GUZMAN. 

To  be  alone  with  Heaven.     I  thank  you,  madam  ; 
For,  through  your  darkest  clouds,  grace  dawned  on 
me. 

Dona  H.    Fool  that  I  was !     Fecl'st  thou  secure 
of  grace  ? 

Leo.    As  far  as  mortal  may. 

Dona  M.  Dost  thou  repent 

Thy  wrongs  to  me  ? 

Leo.  I  do,  sincerely,  madam, 

With  all  the  mischief  my  example  did, 
And  pray  your  pardon  heartily.  [Kneels."} 

Dona  M.  Thou  dost  ? 

I  'd  add  new  fuel  to  the  flames  of  woe, 
Ere  I  'd  do  this  for  thee.     Dost  thou  repent 
Thy  sorceries,  —  the  devilish  arts  employed 
On  me  and  Pedro,  to  overcome  our  lives, 
While  we  lay,  weakly,  in  one  painful  bed  ? 

Leo.    I  never  practised  them. 

Dona  31.  'T  is  false  ! 

Leo.  Indeed, 

I  ne'er  had  cause  to  pray  to  Heaven  for  that. 

Dona  M.     Dost   thou   repent   the    shameless   life 

thou  'st  led 
With  King  Alfonso,  —  the  bold,  guilty  love  ? 

Leo.    The  life,  perhaps,  I  do  regret ;  the  love 
Never,  0  never ! 

Dona  M.   (Laughing.)  Ha!  there  's  still  one  spot  — 
There  's  still  one  damned  spot  upon  thy  soul  — 
Which  the  infernal  flames  shall  kindle  to  !   [Seizes  her.} 

Jua.    0  murder  !  —  murder  !  — 

Dona  M.  Stop  that  screech-owl's  breath  ! 

[Attendants  seize  JUANA.] 

Leo.    Spare  me  —  be  merciful  —  0  let  me  go  ! 

with  her.} 


LEONOR    DE  GUZMAN.  343 

I  am  a  woman  —  not  a  heroine  — 

One  of  thy  sex  !     I  would  not  use  thee  thus  ! 

Jua.    Help  !  —  murder  !  —  murder  !  —  Hark  ! 

[Noise  without.] 

Leo.  0,  pardon  me  ! 

I  loved  Alfonso  —  that  is  my  excuse  ! 

Dona  M.    And  that  my  retribution  I  [Stabs her.] 

Leo.  It  is  well ! 

God's  purpose,  and  I  bow  to  it.  [Falls.] 

(  JUAN  A  rushes  forward  and  raises  her.) 

Alburquerque.    (Without.)  Standby! 

Sentinel.    (Without.)  The  queen  commanded  — 
Alb.    (Without.)       Curse  the  queen's  command  ! 

(Hurls  the  Sentinel  through  the  door,  and  enters,  followed  bij 
armed  Attendants.) 

Ho  !  Leonor  de  Guzman  ;  wake,  look  up  ! 
I  've  brought  another  —  surer  than  the  first  — 
Another  warrant  —  try  to  gull  me  now — • 
Strangle  that  woman ! 

[His  Attendants  advance  towards  LEONOR.] 

Dona  M.    (Interposing.)   Murderers,  back  !  or  I 
Will  strike  you  with  my  poniard  ! 

Alb.  Murderers,  hey  ? 

By  what  new  title  have  you  dubbed  yourself? 

Dona  M.    Avenger,  and  riot  murderer.     No,   my 

lord, 

You  shall  not  harm  a  single  hair  of  her. 
She  's  all  my  own,  by  virtue  of  my  wrongs. 

Alb.    And  mine,  by  virtue  of  my  rights. 

Jua.  Peace,  peace  I 

A  little  quiet  for  a  parting  soul ! 


344  LEONOR    DE  GUZMAN'. 

Leo.    Let  the  wolves  rage,  according  to  their  kind. 
I  am  content  with  Heaven's  decree.     If  fate 
Were  in  our  hands,  we  'd  make  but  sorry  work. 
0,  hapless  queen  !  the  tears  you  '11  shed  for  this 
Cannot  be  numbered  by  a  count  of  years. 
Forlorn,  heart-broken,  lonely,  cast  aside 
By  him,  your  son,  the  only  soul  you  love, 
You  shall  drag  on  a  train  of  painful  days, 
Darker  and  longer  than  the  arctic  nights. 
Despised  by  all,  pitied  by  none,  you  '11  die 
A  death  as  sudden  as  my  own  ! 

Alb.  And  I  ?  - 

Now,  while  the  gift  of  prophecy  is  strong, 
A  word  for  me  ;  for  I  deserve  your  care  ;  — 
My  fate  ? 

Leo.     Dead,  in  Enrique's  cause  ;  and  then  — 

Alb.    The  sky  will  fall,  and  we'll  catch  larks!  — 
Amen  ! 

Leo.    Scoffer,  your  jeers  fall  blunted  on  my  ear; 
The  shield  of  death  is  spread  above  my  head, 
And  mocks  are  useless. 

Alb.  Prophetess,  what  then  ? 

We  '11  pry  fate's  doors  a  little  wider ;  speak  ! 

Leo.    Your  carrion  shall  be  borne  before  a  host, 
Till  it  offend  the  decency  of  sense. 
Living,  you  made  Castile  your  foul  abode  — 
Dying,  you  '11  make  it  loathsome  !     Wretched  man, 
The   hand   you  've    raised    shall   crush    you    to   the 

earth  ; 

The  snares  you  lay  shall  tangle  your  own  feet ; 
The    friends   you  've   made    shall  make   themselves 

your  foes  ; 
The  foes  you  've  made  shall  be  your  only  friends ! 


LEONOR   DE   GUZMAN.  345 

And,  in  the  sight  of  triumph,  murderous  death 
Shall  snatch  you  suddenly  ! 

Alb.  Hey!  Coronel- 

What  was  it,  Coronel  ?  —  a  crown  of  thorns  ? 
Right,  strangely  right !  —  a  crown  of  thorns,  indeed  ! 
Methinks,  I  feel  them  sting  !  [Exit  slowly.'} 

Leo.  Juana,  daughter, 

7T  is  sweet  to  die  within  thy  loving  arms  ; 
But  take  thy  hand  away  ;  thou  hold'st  me  back  — 
Remove  thy  hand,  and  let  the  wound  alone  — 
Thou  hold'st  me  back  from  heaven.     That 's  kindly 

done  I 

See,  how  the  little  river  steals  away  ! 
On  that  I  '11  float  to  heaven.     Forgive  the  queen  ; 
And  say  good-night  to  all,  for  Leonor. 
When  thy  Enrique  7s  king  —  Pray,  trim  the  lights  — 
I  faint  with  thirst  —  some  drink  —  Alfonso  —  0  ! 

\_Dies.1 

Dona  M.   I  know  not  that  I  am  avenged,  at  last. 


FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI 


A    TRAGEDY. 

Francesca,  i  tuoi  martiri 
A  lagriniar  mi  fanno  tristo  e  pio. 

DAXTB. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


MALATESTA, Lord  of  Rimini. 

GUIDO  DA  POLENTA, Lord  of  Ravenna. 

LANCIOTTO, Malatcsta's  son. 

PAOLO, His  brother. 

PEP£, Malatesta's  jester 

CARDINAL, > Friend  to  Guido. 

RENE, A  troubadour. 

FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI, Guido's  daughter. 

RITTA Her  maid. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Knights,  Priests,  Soldiers,  Pages,  Attendants,  $c. 

SCENE,  Rimini,  Ravenna,  and  the  neighborhood. 

TIME,  about  1300  A.  D. 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 


ACT     I. 

SCENE  I.  Rimini.  The  Garden  of  the  Palace.  PAOLO  and  a 
number  of  noblemen  are  discovered,  seated  under  an  arbor,  sur 
rounded  by  RENE,  and  other  Troubadours,  attendants,  $c. 

Paolo.   I  PRITHEE,  Rene,  charm  our  ears  again 
With  the  same  song  you  sang  me  yesterday. 
Here  are  fresh  listeners. 

Rene.  Really,  my  good  lord, 

My  voice  is  out  of  joint.    A  grievous  cold —  [  COMMAS.] 

Paolo.    A  very  grievous,  but  convenient  cold, 
Which  always  racks  you  when  you  would  not  sing. 

Rene.    0,  no,  my  lord  !     Besides,  I  hoped  to  hear 
My  ditty  warbled  into  fairer  cars, 
By  your  own  lips  ;  to  better  purpose,  too. 

[The  Noblemen  all  laugh.] 
First  Nobleman.    Rene  has  hit  it.     Music  runs  to 

waste 
In  ears  like  ours. 

Second  Nobleman.    Nay,  nay ;    chaunt   on,  sweet 

Count. 

Paolo.    (Coughing.)  .Alack!  you  hear,  I've  caught 
poor  Rene's  cough. 


350  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

First  N.   That  would  not  be,  if  we  wore  petticoats. 

[TVie  others  lauyh.] 
Paolo.    0,  fie  ! 

First  N.  So  runs  the  scandal  to  our  ears. 

Second   N.    Confirmed   by   all    our   other   senses, 

Count. 
First  N.    Witnessed  by  many  a  doleful  sigh,  poured 

out 

By  many  a  breaking  heart  in  Rimini. 
Second  N.   Poor  girls  ! 
First  N.     (Mimicking  a  lady. )     Sweet  Count !    sweet 

Count  Paolo  !     0  ! 
Plant  early  violets  upon  my  grave  ! 
Thus  go  a  thousand  voices  to  one  tune. 

[  The  others  laugh.] 

Paolo.  'Ods  mercy  !  gentlemen,  you  do  me  wrong. 
Firnt  N.  And  by  how  many  hundred,  more  or  less  ? 
Paolo.  Ah  !  rogues,  you  'd  shift  your  sins  upon  my 

shoulders. 

Second  N.    You  'd  bear  them  stoutly. 
First  N.  It  were  vain  to  give 

Drops  to  god  Neptune.     You  're  the  sea  of  love 
That  swallows  all  things. 

Second  N.  We  the  little  fish 

That  meanly  scull  about  within  your  depths. 

Paolo.    Go  on,  go  on  !     Talk  yourselves  fairly  out. 

[PEPE  laughs  without.] 

But,  hark  !  here  comes  the  fool.     Fit  company 
For  this  most  noble  company  of  wits  ! 

(Enter  PEPE,  laughing  violently.) 

Why  do  you  laugh  ? 

Pepe.  I  'm  laughing  at  the  world. 

It  lias  laughed  long  enough  at  me  ;  and  BO 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  351 

I  '11  turn  the  tables.     Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !     I  've  heard 

A  better  joke  of  Uncle  Malatesta's 

Than  any  I  e'er  uttered.  [Laughing.] 

All.  Tell  it,  fool. 

Pepe.    Why,   do   you   know  —  upon   my  life,   the 

best 

And  most  original  idea  on  earth  : 
A  joke  to  put  in  practice,  too.     By  Jove  ! 
I  '11  bet  my  wit  'gainst  the  stupidity 
Of  the  best  gentleman  among  you  all, 
You  cannot  guess  it. 

All.  Tell  us,  tell  us,  fool. 

Pepe.    Guess  it,  guess  it,  fools. 

Paolo.  Come,  disclose,  disclose  ! 

Pepe.    He  has  a  match  afoot.  — 

All.  A  match ! 

Pepe.  A  marriage. 

AIL    Who?  — who? 

Pepe.  A  marriage  in  his  family. 

AIL    But,  who? 

Pepe.  Ah  !  there  7s  the  point. 

All.  Paolo? 

Pepe.  No. 

First  N.    The   others   are  well  wived.     Shall  we 
turn  Turks  ? 

Pepe.    Why,  there  7s  the  summit  of  his  joke,  good 

sirs. 

By  all  the  sacred  symbols  of  my  art  — 
By  cap  and  bauble,  by  my  tinkling  bell  — 
He  means  to  marry  Lanciotto  !  [Laughs  violently.} 

All.      (Laughing.)      Ho  I  — 

Paolo.    Peace  !  peace  !     What  tongue  dare  echo 
yon  fool's  laugh  ? 


352  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Nay,  never  raise  your  hands  in  wonderment : 
I  '11  strike  the  dearest  friend  among  ye  all 
Beneath  my  feet,  as  if  he  were  a  slave, 
Who  dares  insult  my  brother  with  a  laugh ! 

Pepe.    By   Jove  !    ye  're    sad    enough.      Here  's 

mirth's  quick  cure  ! 
Pretty  Paolo  has  a  heavy  fist, 
I  warn  you,  sirs.     Ho  !  ho  !     I  trapped  them  all ; 

[Langking.] 
Now  I  '11  go  mar  old  Malatesta's  message.     [Aside.] 

[Exit.} 

Paolo.    Shame  on  ye,  sirs  !     I  have  mistaken  you. 
I  thought  I  harbored  better  friends.     Poor  fops, 
Who  've  slept  in  down  and  satin  all  your  years, 
Within  the  circle  Lanciotto  charmed 
Round  Rimini  with  his  most  potent  sword !  - 
I-Y'lluws  whose  brows  would  melt  beneath  a  casque, 
Whose  hands  would  fray  to  grasp  a  brand's  rough 

hilt, 
Who  ne'er  launched  more  than  braggart  threats  Jit 

foes !  — 

Girlish  companions  of  luxurious  girls  !  - 
Danglers  round  troubadours  and  wine-cups !  -  -  Men 
Whose  best  parts  are  their  clothes  !  bundles  of  silk, 
Scented  like  summer  !  rag-men,  nothing  more  !  — 
Creatures  as  generous  as  monkeys  —  brave 
As  hunted  hares  —  courteous  as  grinning  apes  — 
(intti-ful  as  serpents  —  useful  as  lap-dogs  — 

[During  this,  the  Noblemen,  <§-c.,  steal  off.] 

Ha! 

I  am  alone  at  last !  So  let  me  be, 
Till  Lanciotto  fill  the  vacant  room 
Of  these  mean  knaves,  whose  friendship  is  but  bivath 

[Exit.] 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  353 


SCENE    II. 

Tie  Same.     A  Hall  in  the  Castle.     Enter  MALATESTA  and  LAN- 
CIOTTO. 

MalateMa.    Guido,  ay,  Guido  of  Ravenna,  son  — 
Down  on  his  knees,  as  full  of  abject  prayers 
For  peace  and  mercy  as  a  penitent. 

Landotto.   His  old  trick,  father.    While  his  wearied 


Is  raised  in  seeming  prayer,  it  only  rests. 
Anon,  lie  '11  deal  you  such  a  staggering  blow, 
With  its  recovered  strength,  as  shall  convert 
You,  and  not  him,  into  a  penitent. 

Mai.    No,  no  ;  your  last  bout  levelled  him.     lie 

reeled 

Into  Ravenna,  from  the  battle-field, 
Like  a  stripped  drunkard,  and  there  headlong  fell  — 
A  mass  of  squalid  misery,  a  thing 
To  draw  the  jeering  urchins.     I  have  this 
From  faithful  spies.     There  's  not  a  hope  remains 
To  break  the  shock  of  his  great  overthrow. 
I  pity  Guido. 

Lan.  'Sdeath  !  go  comfort  him  ! 

I  pity  those  who  fought,  and  bled,  and  died, 
Before  the  armies  of  this  Ghibelin. 
I  pity  those  who  halted  home  with  wounds 
Dealt  by  his  hand.     I  pity  widowed  eyes 
That  he  set  running  ;  maiden  hearts  that  turn, 
Sick  with  despair,  from  ranks  thinned  down  by  him  ; 
Mothers  that  shriek,  as  the  last  stragglers  fling 
Their  feverish  bodies  by  the  fountain-side, 
Dumb  witli  mere  thirst,  and  faintly  point  to  him, 

VOL.  T.  2)] 


354  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Answering  the  dame's  quick  questions.    I  have  seen 
Unburied  bones,  and  skulls  —  that  seemed  to  ask, 
From  their  blank  eye-holes,  vengeance  at  my  hand  — 
Shine  in  the  moonlight  on  old  battle-fields ; 
And  even  these  —  the  happy  dead,  my  lord  — 
I  pity  more  than  Guido  of  Ravenna ! 

Mai.    What  would  you  have  ? 

Lan.  1  'd  see  Ravenna  burn, 

Flame  into  heaven,  and  scorch  the  Hying  clouds ; 
I  'd  choke  her  streets  with  ruined  palaces ;  . 
I  'd  hear  her  women  scream  with  fear  and  grief, 
As  I  have  heard  the  maids  of  Rimini. 
All  this  I  'd  sprinkle  with  old  Guido's  blood, 
And  bless  the  baptism. 

Mai.  You  are  cruel. 

Lan.  Not  I ; 

But  these  things  ache  within  rny  fretting  brain. 
The  sight  1  first  beheld  was  from  the  arms 
Of  my  wild  nurse,  her  husband  hacked  to  death 
By  the  fierce  edges  of  these  Ghibelins. 
One  cut  across  the  neck  —  I  see  it  now, 
Ay,  arid  have  mimicked  it  a  thousand  times, 
Just  as  I  saw  it,  on  our  enemies.  — 
Why,  that  cut  seemed  as  if  it  meant  to  bleed 
On  till  the  judgment.     My  distracted  nurse 
Stooped  down,  and  paddled  in  the  running  gore 
With  her  poor  fingers  ;  then  a  prophetess, 
Pale  with  the  inspiration  of  the  god, 
She  towered  aloft,  and  with  her  dripping  hand 
Three  times  she  signed  me  with  the  holy  cross. 
'T  is  all  as  plain  as  noon-day.     Thus  she  spake,  — 
"  May  this  spot  stand  till  Guido's  dearest  blood 
Be  mingled  with  thy  own  !  "     The  soldiers  say, 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI.  355 

Tn  the  close  battle,  when  my  wrath  is  up, 

The  dead  man's  blood  flames  on  my  vengeful  brow 

Like  a  red  planet ;  and  when  war  is  o'er, 

It  shrinks  into  my  brain,  defiling  all 

My  better  nature  with  its  slaughterous  lusts. 

Howe'er  it  be,  it  shaped  my  earliest  thought, 

And  it  will  shape  my  last. 

Mai.  You  moody  churl ! 

You  dismal  knot  of  superstitious  dreams  ! 
Do  you  not  blush  to  empty  such  a  head 
Before  a  sober  man  ?     Why,  son,  the  world 
Has  not  given  o'er  its  laughing  humor  yet, 
That  you  should  try  it  with  such  vagaries.  —  Poll ! 
I  '11  get  a  wife  to  teach  you  common  sense. 

Lan.    A  wife  for  me  I  [Laughing.] 

Mai.  Ay,  sir,  a  wife  for  you. 

You  shall  be  married,  to  insure  your  wits. 

Lan.    'T  is  not  your  wont  to  mock  me. 

Mai.  How  now,  son  ! 

I  am  not  given  to  jesting.     I  have  chosen 
The  fairest  wife  in  Italy  for  you. 
You  won  hor  bravely,  as  a  soldier  should  : 
And  when  you  'd  woo  her,  stretch  your  gauntlet  out, 
And  crush  her  fingers  in  its  steel}7  grip. 
If  you  will  plead,  I  ween,  she  dare  not  say  — 
^T()>  by  your  leave.     Should  she  refuse,  howe'er, 
With  that  same  iron  hand  you  shall  go  knock 
Upon  Ravenna's  gates,  till  all  the  town 
Ring  with  your  courtship.     I  have  made  her  hand 
The  price  and  pledge  of  Guide's  future  peace. 

Lan.    All  this  is  done  ! 

Mai.  Done,  out  of  hand  ;  and  now 

I  wait  a  formal  answer,  nothing  more. 


356  FRANCESCA    DA     RIMIXI. 

Guido  dare  not  decline.     No,  by  the  saints, 
He  'd  send  Ravenna's  virgins  here  in  droves, 
To  buy  a  ten  days'  truce. 

Lan.  Sir,  let  me  say, 

You  stretch  paternal  privilege  too  far, 
To  pledge  my  hand  without  my  own  consent. 
Am  I  a  portion  of  your  household  stuff, 
That  you  should  trade  me  off*  to  Guido  thus  ? 
Who  is  the  lady  I  am  bartered  for  ? 

Mai.  Franceses,  Guide's  daughter. —  Never  frown  ; 
It  shall  be  so  ! 

Lan.  By  heaven,  it  shall  not  be  ! 

My  blood  shall  never  mingle  with  his  race. 

Mai.    According  to  your  nurse's  prophecy, 
Fate  orders  it. 

Lan.  Ha! 

Mai.  Now,  then,  I  have  struck 

The  chord  that  answers  to  your  gloomy  thoughts. 
Bali  !  on  your  sibyl  and  her  prophecy  ! 
Put  Guido's  blood  aside,  and  yet,  I  say, 
JSIarry  you  shall. 

Lan.  'T  is  most  distasteful,  sir. 

Mai.    Laneiotto,  look  ye  !      You  brave  gentlemen, 
So  fond  of  knocking  out  poor  people's  brains, 
In  time  must  come  to  have  your  own  knocked  out : 
What,  then,  if  you  bequeath  us  no  new  hands, 
To  carry  on  your  business,  and  our  house 
Die  out  for  lack  of  princes  ? 

Lan.  Wed  my  brothers  : 

They  '11  rear  you  sons,  I  '11  slay  you  enemies. 
Paolo  and  Francesca  !     Note  their  names  ; 
They  chime  together  like  sweet  marriage-bells. 
A  proper  match.     'Tis  said  she  's  beautiful  ; 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  357 

And  he  is  the  delight  of  Rimini,  — 

The  pride  and  conscious  centre  of  all  eyes, 

The  theme  of  poets,  the  ideal  of  art, 

The  earthly  treasury  of  Heaven's  best  gifts ! 

I  am  a  soldier  ;  from  my  very  birth, 

Heaven  cut  ine  out  for  terror,  not  for  love. 

I  had  such  fancies  once,  but  now  — 

V '«    >   ^v 
Mai.  Pshaw !  SOD, 

My  faith  is  bound  to  Guido  ;  and  if  you 
Do  not  throw  off' your  duty,  and  defy, 
Through  sickly  scruples,  my  express  commands, 
You  '11  yield  at  once.  ,  No  more  :  I  '11  have  it  so  ! 

\_ExiL] 

Lan.    Curses  upon  my  destiny  !     What,  I  — 
Ho  I    I  have  found  my  use  at  last  —  What,  I, 
I,  the  great  twisted  monster  of  the  wars, 
The  brawny  cripple,  the  herculean  dwarf, 
The  spur  of  panic,  and  the  butt  of  scorn  — 
I  be  a  bridegroom  !     Heaven,  was  I  not  cursed 
More  than  enough,  when  thou  didst  fashion  me 
To  be  a  type  of  ugliness,  —  a  thing 
By  whose  comparison  all  Rimini 
Holds  itself  beautiful  ?     Lo  !  here  I  stand, 
A  gnarled,  blighted  trunk  !     There  's  not  a  knave 
So  spindle-shanked,  so  wry-faced,  so  infirm, 
Who  looks  at  me,  and  smiles  not  on  himself. 
And  I  have  friends  to  pity  me  —  great  Heaven  ! 
One  has  a  favorite  leg  that  he  bewails,  — 
Another  sees  my  hip  with  doleful  plaints,  — 
A  third  is  sorry  o'er  my  huge  swart  arms,  — 
A.  fourth  aspires  to  mount  my  very  hump, 
And  thence  harangue  his  weeping  brotherhood  ! 


358  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Pah  !  it  is  nauseous  !     Must  I  further  bear 
The  sidelong  shuddering  glances  of  a  wife  ? 
The  degradation  of  a  showy  love, 
That  over-acts,  and  proves  the  mummer's  craft 
Untouched  by  nature  ?     And  a  fair  wife,  too  !  — 
Franceses,  whom  the  minstrels  sing  about ! 
Though,  by  my  side,  what  woman  were  not  fair  ? 
Circe  looked  well  among  her  swine,  no  doubt; 
Next  me,  she  'd  pass  for  Venus.     Ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! 

[Laughing. 

Would  there  were  something  merry  in  my  laugh ! 
Now,  in  the  battle,  if  a  Ghibelin 
Cry,  "  Wry-hip  !  hunchback  !  "  I  can  trample  him 
Under  my  stallion's  hoofs  ;  or  haggle  him 
Into  a  monstrous  likeness  of  myself : 
But  to  be  pitied,  —  to  endure  a  sting 
Thrust  in  by  kindness,  with  a  sort  of  smile  !  — 
'Sdeath  !  it  is  miserable  ! 

(Enter  PEPE.) 

Pepe.  My  lord  — 

Lan.  My  fool  ! 

Pepe.    We  '11  change  our  titles  when  your  bride's 

bells  ring  — 
Ha,  cousin  ? 

Lan.          Even  this  poor  fool  has  eyes, 
To  see  the  wretched  plight  in  which  I  stand. 
How,  gossip,  how? 

Pepe.  I,  being  the  court-fool, 

Am  lord  of  fools  by  my  prerogative. 

Lan.    Who  told  you  of  my  marriage  ? 

Pepe.  Rimini ! 

A  frightful  liar ;  but  true  for  once,  I  fear. 


FRAXCE3CA    DA    FJMIXI.  359 

Tlic  messenger  from  Guido  has  returned, 
And  the  whole  town  is  wailing  over  him. 
Some  pity  you,  and  some  the  bride  ;  but  I, 
Being  more  catholic,  I  pity  both. 

Lan.    Still,  pity,  pity  !  (Aside.  Sells  toll.)  Ha !  whose 
knell  is  that  ? 

Pepe.    Lord  Malatesta  sent  me  to  the  tower, 
To  have  the  bells  rung  for  your  marriage-news. 
How,  he  said  not ;  so  I,  as  I  thought  fit, 
Told  the  deaf  sexton  to  ring  out  a  knell.     [Sells  toll.] 
How  do  you  like  it  ? 

Lan.  Varlet,  have  you  bones, 

To  risk  their  breaking  ?     I  have  half  a  mind 
To  thresh  you  from  your  motley  coat !        [Seizes  him."] 

Pepe.  Pardee ! 

Respect  my  coxcomb,  cousin.     Hark  !  ha,  ha  ! 

[Laughing.] 

(Bells  ring  a  joyful  peal.) 

Some  one  has  changed  my  music.     Heaven  defend  ! 
How  the  bells  jangle  !     Yonder  graybeard,  now, 
Rings  a  peal  vilely.     lie  's  more  used  to  knells, 
And  sounds  them  grandly.     Only  give  him  time, 
And,  I  '11  be  sworn,  he  '11  ring  your  knell  out  yet. 

Lan.    Pepe,  you  are  but  half  a  fool. 

Pepe.  My  lord, 

I  can  return  the  compliment  in  fulL 

Lan.    So,  you  are  ready. 

Pepe.  Truth  is  always  so. 

Lan.    I  shook  you  rudely  ;  here  's  a  florin. 

[Offers  money.] 

Pepe.  No  : 

My  wit  is  merchandise,  but  not  my  honor. 


360  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Lan.    Your  honor,  sirrah  I 

Pepe.  Why  not  ?     You  great  lords 

Have  something  you  call  lordly  honor  ;  pray, 
May  not  a  fool  have  foolish  honor  too  ? 
Cousin,  you  laid  your  hand  upon  my  coat  — 
;T  was  the  first  sacrilege  it  ever  knew  — 
And  you  shall  pay  it.     Mark  !  I  promise  you. 

Lan.    (Laughing.)  Ha,  ha  !  you  bluster  well.    Upon 

my  life, 

You  have  the  tilt-yard  jargon  to  a  breath. 
Pepe,  if  I  should  smite  you  on  the  cheek  — 
Thus,  gossip,  thus —  (Strikes  him.)    what  would  you 
then  demand  ? 

Pepe.    Your  life  ! 

Lan.  (Laughing.)  Ha,  ha !  there  is  the  camp-style 

too  — 

A  very  cut-throat  air !     How  this  shrewd  fool 
Makes  the  punctilio  of  honor  show  ! 
Change  helmets  into  coxcombs,  swords  to  baubles, 
And  what  a  figure  is  poor  chivalry  ! 
Thanks  for  your  lesson,  Pepe  !  [Exit.} 

Pepe.  Ere  I  'm  done, 

You  '11  curse  as  heartily,  you  limping  beast ! 
Ila  !  so  we  go  —  Lord  Lanciotto,  look  ! 

[  Walks  about,  mimicking  him.'] 

Here  is  a  leg  and  camel-back,  forsooth, 

To  match  your  honor  and  nobility  ! 

You  miscreated  scarecrow,  dare  you  shake, 

Or  strike  in  jest,  a  natural  man  like  me  ?  — 

You  cursed  lump,  you  chaos  of  a  man, 

To  buffet  one  whom  Heaven  pronounces  good  I 

[Bells  ring.] 
There  go  the  bells  rejoicing  over  you  : 


FRAXCE3CA    DA    RIJIIXI.  361 

1  '11  change  them  back  to  the  old  knell  again. 
You  many,  faugh  !     Beget  a  race  of  elves  ; 
Wed  a  she-crocodile,  and  keep  within 
The  limits  of  your  nature  !     Here  we  go, 
Tripping  along  to  meet  our  promised  bride, 
Like  a  rheumatic  elephant !  — ha,  ha  !          [Laughing.] 

[Exit,  •mimickiny  LANCIOTTO.] 


SCENE  III. 
The  Same.     Jl  Room  in  the  Same.     Enter  LANCIOTTO,  hastily. 

Lanciotto.    Why  do  these  prodigies  environ  me  ? 
In  ancient  Rome,  the  words  a  fool  might  drop, 
From  the  confusion  of  his  vagrant  thoughts, 
Were  held  as  omens,  prophecies  ;  and  men 
Who  made  earth  tremble  with  majestic  deeds, 
Trembled  themselves  at  fortune's  lightest  threat. 
I  like  it  not.     My  father  named  this  match 
While  I  boiled  over  with  vindictive  wrath 
Towards  Guido  and  Ravenna.     Straight  my  heart 
Sank  down  like  lead  ;  a  weakness  seized  on  me, 
A  dismal  gloom  that  I  could  not  resist ; 
I  lacked  the  power  to  take  my  stand,  and  say  — 
Bluntly,  I  will  not !     Am  I  in  the  toils  ? 
Has  fate  so  weakened  me,  to  work  its  end  ? 
There  seems  a  fascination  in  it,  too,  — 
A  morbid  craving  to  pursue  a  thing 
Whose  issue  may  be  fatal.     Would  that  I 
Were  in  the  wars  again  !     These  mental  weeds 
Grow  on  the  surface  of  inactive  peace. 
I  'm  haunted  by  myself.     Thought  preys  on  thought 


262  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

My  mind  seems  crowded  in  the  hideous  mould 

That  shaped  my  body.     What  a  fool  am  I 

To  bear  the  burden  of  rny  wretched  life, 

To  sweat  and  toil  under  the  world's  broad  eye, 

Climb  into  fame,  and  find  myself —  0,  what  ?  — 

A  most  conspicuous  monster  !     Crown  my  head, 

Pile  Caesar's  purple  on  me  —  and  what  then  ? 

My  hump  shall  shorten  the  imperial  robe, 

My  leg  peep  out  beneath  the  scanty  hem, 

My  broken  hip  shall  twist  the  gown  awry  ; 

And  pomp,  instead  of  dignifying  me, 

Shall  be  by  me  made  quite  ridiculous. 

The  faintest  coward  would  not  bear  all  this : 

Prodigious  courage  must  be  mine,  to  live  ; 

To  die  asks  nothing  but  weak  will,  and  I 

Feel  like  a  craven.     Let  me  skulk  away 

Ere-  life  o'ertask  me.  [Offers  to  stab  himself.] 

(Enter  PAOLO.) 

Paolo.    (Seizing  his  hand.)    Brother!   what  is  this  ? 
Lanciotto,  are  you  mad?  Kind  Heaven  !  look  here  — 
Straight  in  my  eyes.     Now  answer,  do  you  know 
How  near  you  were  to  murder  ?     Dare  you  bend 
Your  wicked  hand  against  a  heart  I  love  ? 
Were  it  for  you  to  mourn  your  wilful  death, 
With  such  a  bitterness  as  would  be  ours, 
The   wish   would  ne'er  have  crossed    you.      While 

we  're  bound 

Lili'  into  life,  a  chain  of  loving  hearts, 
Were  it  not  base  in  you,  the  middle  link, 
To  snap,  and  scatter  all  ?     Shame,  brother,  shame  ! 
1  tin  night  you  better  metal. 

Lan.  Spare  your  words. 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  203 

I  know  the  seasons  of  our  human  grief, 

And  can  predict  them  without  almanac. 

A  few  sobs  o'er  the  body,  and  a  few 

Over  the  coffin  ;  then  a  sigh  or  two, 

Whose  windy  passage  dries  the  hanging  tear  ; 

Perchance,  some  wandering  memories,  some  regrets  ; 

Then  a  vast  influx  of  consoling  thoughts  — • 

Based  on  the  trials  of  the  sadder  days 

Which  the  dead  missed  ;  and  then  a  smiling  face 

Turned  on  to-morrow.     Such  is  mortal  grief. 

It  writes  its  histories  within  a  span, 

And  never  lives  to  read  them. 

Paolo.  Lanciotto, 

I  heard  the  bells  of  Rimini,  just  now, 
Exulting  o'er  your  coming  marriage-day, 
While  you  conspired  to  teach  them  gloomier  sounds. 
Why  are  you  sad  ? 

Lan.  Paolo,  I  am  wretched  ; 

Sad  's  a  faint  word.     But  of  my  marriage-bells  — 
Heard  you  the  knell  that  Pope  rang  ? 

Paolo.  ;T  was  strange  : 

A  sullen  antic  of  his  crabbed  wit. 

Lan.    It  was    portentous.     All    dumb  things  find 

tongues 

Against  this  marriage.     As  I  passed  the  hall, 
My  armor  glittered  on  the  wall,  and  I 
Paused  by  the  harness,  as  before  a  friend 
Whose  well-known  features  slack  our  hurried  gait ; 
Francesca's  name  was  fresh  upon  my  mind, 
So  I  half-uttered  it.     Instant,  my  sword 
Leaped  from  its  scabbard,  as  with  sudden  life, 
Plunged  down  and  pierced  into  the  oaken  floor, 
Shivering  with  fear  !     Lo  !  while  I  gazod  upon  it  — 


364  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Doubting-  the  nature  of  the  accident  — 

Around  the  point  appeared  a  spot  of  blood, 

Oozing  upon  the  floor,  that  spread  arid  sproad  — 

As  I  stood  gasping  by  in  speechless  horror  — 

King  beyond  ring,  until  the  odious  tide 

Crawled   to   my   feet,    and   lapped    them,    like    the 

tongues 

Of  angry  serpents  !     0,  my  God  !  I  fled 
At  the  first  touch  of  the  infernal  stain  ! 
Go  —  you  may  see  —  go  to  the  hall  ! 

Paolo.  Fie  !  man, 

You  have  been  ever  played  on  in  this  sort 
By  your  wild  fancies.     When  your  heart  is  high, 
You  make  thorn  playthings  ;  but  in  lower  moods, 
They  seem  to  sap  the  essence  of  your  soul, 
And  drain  your  manhood  to  its  poorest  dregs. 

Lan.    Go  look,  go  look  ! 

Paolo.    (Goes  to  the  door,  and  returns.)    There  sticks  the 

sword,  indeed, 

Just  as  your  tread  detached  it  from  its  sheath  ; 
Looking  more  like  a  blessed  cross,  I  think, 
Than  a  bad  omen.     As  for  blood  —  Ha,  ha  ! 


It  sets  mine  dancing.     Pshaw!  away  with  this! 
Deck  up  your  face  with  smiles.     Go  trim  yourself 
For  the  young  bride.     New  velvet,  gold,  and  gems, 
Do  wonders  for  us.     Brother,  conic  ;  I  '11  be 
Your  tiring-man,  for  once. 

Lan.  Array  this  lump  — 

Paolo,  hark!     There  are  some  human  thoughts 
Best  left  imprisoned  in  the  aching  heart, 
Lest  the  freed  malefactors  should  dispri-.i  1 
Infamous  ruin  with  their  liberty. 


FRAXCE3CA    DA    RIMIXI.  305 

There  's  not  a  man  —  the  fairest  of  ye  all  — 
Who  is  not  fouler  than  he  seems.     This  life 
Is  one  unending  struggle  to  conceal 
Our  baseness  from  our  fellows.     Here  stands  one 
In  vestal  whiteness  with  a  lecher's  lust ;  — 
There  sits  a  judge,  holding  law's  scales  in  hands 
That  itch  to  take  the  bribe  he  dare  not  touch  ;  — 
Here   goes  a  priest,  with  heavenward  eyes,  whoso 

soul 

Is  Satan's  council-chamber  ;  —  there  a  doctor, 
With  nature's  secrets  wrinkled  round  a  brow 
Guilty  with  conscious  ignorance  ;  —  and  here 
A  soldier  rivals  Hector's  bloody  deeds  — 
Out-docs  the  devil  in  audacity  — 
With  craven  longings  fluttering  in  a  heart 
That  dares  do  aught  but  fly  1     Thus  are  we  all 
Mere  slaves  and  alms-men  to  a  scornful  world, 
That  takes  us  at  our  seeming. 

Paolo.  Say  't  is  true  ; 

What  do  you  drive  at  ? 

Lan.  At  myself,  full  tilt. 

I,  like  the  others,  am  not  what  I  seem. 
Men  call  me  gentle,  courteous,  brave.  —  They  lie  I 
I  'm  harsh,  rude,  and  a  coward.     Had  I  nerve 
To  cast  my  devils  out  upon  the  earth, 
I  'd  show  this  laughing  planet  what  a  hell 
Of  envy,  malice,  cruelty,  and  scorn, 
It  has  forced  back  to  canker  in  the  heart 
Of  one  poor  cripple  ! 

Paolo.  Ha ! 

Lan.  Ay,  now  'tis  out ! 

A  word  I  never  breathed  to  man  before. 
Can  you,  who  are  a  miracle  of  grace, 


;;»il>  FRANCKSCA    DA    RIMIXI. 

Feel  what  it  is  to  be  a  wreck  like  me  ? 
Paolo,  look  at  me.     Is  there  a  line, 
In  my  whole  bulk  of  wretched  contraries, 
That  nature  in  a  nightmare  ever  used 
LTpon  her  shapes  till  now  ?     Find  me  the  man, 
Or  beast,  or  tree,  or  rock,  or  nameless  thing, 
So  out  of  harmony  with  all  thing's  else, 
And  I  '11  go  raving  with  bare  happiness, — 
Ay,  and  I  '11  marry  Helena  of  Greece, 
And  swear  I  do  her  honor ! 

Paolo.  Lanciotto, 

I,  who  have  known  you  from  a  stripling  up, 
Never  observed,  or,  if  I  did,  ne'er  weighed 
Your  special  difference  from  the  rest  of  men. 
You  're  not  Apollo  — 

Lan.  No  ! 

Paolo.  Nor  yet  are  you 

A  second  Pluto.     Could  I  change  with  you  — 
My  graces  for  your  nobler  qualities  — 
Your   strength,   your   courage,    your   renown  —  by 

heaven, 
We  'd  e'en  change  persons,  to  the  finest  hair. 

Lan .   You  should  be  flatterer  to  an  emperor. 

Paolo.     I    am    but  just.      Let   me  beseech    you, 

brother, 

To  look  with  greater  favor  on  yourself; 
Nor  suffer  misty  phantoms  of  your  brain 
To  take  the  place  of  sound  realities. 
Go  to  Ravenna,  wed  your  bride,  and  lull 
Your  cruel  delusions  in  domestic  peace. 
Ghosts  fly  a  fireside  :  't  is  their  wont  to  stalk 
Through  empty  houses,  and  through  empty  hearts. 
I  know  Francesea  will  be  proud  uf  you. 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  367 

Women  admire  you  heroes.     Rusty  sages, 
Pale  poets,  and  scarred  warriors,  have  been 
Their  idols  ever ;  while  we  fair  plump  fools 
Are  elbowed  to  the  wall,  or  only  used 
For  vacant  pastime. 

Lan.  To  Ravenna  ?  —  no  ! 

In  Rimini  they  know  me  ;  at  Ravenna 
I  'd  be  a  new-come  monster,  and  exposed 
To  curious  wonder.     There  will  be  parade 
Of  all  the  usual  follies  of  the  state  ; 
Fellows  with  trumpets,  tinselled  coats,  and  wands, 
Would  strut  before  rne,  like  vain  mountebanks 
Before  their  monkeys.     Then,  I  should  be  stared 
Out  of  my  modesty  ;  and  when  they  look, 
How  can  I  tell  if  't  is  the  bridegroom's  face 
Or  hump  that  draws  their  eyes  ?     I  will  not  go. 
To  please  3^011  all,  I  '11  marry  ;  but  to  please 
The  wonder-mongers  of  Ravenna  —  Ha  ! 
Paolo,  now  I  have  it.     You  shall  go, 
To  bring  Franoesca  *,  and  you  '11  speak  of  me, 
Not  as  I  ought  to  be,  but  as  I  am. 
If  she  draw  backward,  give  her  rein  ;  and  say 
That  neither  Guido  nor  herself  shall  feel 
The  weight  of  my  displeasure.     You  may  say, 
I  pity  her  — 

Paolo.  For  what  ? 

Lan.  For  wedding  me. 

In  sooth,  she  '11  need  it.     Say  — 

Paolo.  Nay,  Lanciotto, 

I  '11  be  a  better  orator  in  your  behalf, 
Without  your  promptings. 

Lan.  She  is  fair,  't  is  said  ; 

And.  dear  Paolo,  if  she  please  your  eye, 


3G8  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

And  move  your  heart  to  anything  like  love, 

Wed  her  yourself.     The  peace  would  stand  as  firm 

By  such  a  match. 

Paolo.  (Laughing.}  Ha  !  that  is  right :  be  gay  ! 
Ply  me  with  jokes  !     I  'd  rather  see  you  srnile 
Than  see  the  sun  shine. 

Lan.  I  am  serious. 

I  '11  find  another  wife,  less  beautiful, 
More  on  my  level,  and  — 

Paolo.  An  empress,  brother, 

Were  honored  by  your  hand.     You  are  by  much 
Too  humble  in  your  reckoning  of  yourself. 
I  can  count  virtues  in  you,  to  supply 
Half  Italy,  if  they  were  parcelled  out. 
Look  up  ! 

Lan.     I  cannot:  Heaven  has  bent  me  down. 
To  you,  Paolo,  I  could  look,  however, 
Were  my  hump  made  a  mountain.    Bless  him,  God  ! 
Pour  everlasting  bounties  on  his  head  ! 
Make  Croosus  jealous  of  his  treasury, 
Achilles  of  his  arms,  Endymion 
Of  his  fresh  beauties,  —  though  the  coy  one  lay, 
Blushing  beneath  Diana's  earliest  kiss, 
On  grassy  Latmos  ;  and  may  every  good, 
Bbyond  man's  sight,  though  in  the  ken  of  Heaven, 
Round  his  fair  fortune  to  a  perfect  end  ! 
O.  you  have  dried  the  sorrow  of  rny  eyes; 
My  heart  is  beating  with  a  lighter  pulse  ; 
The  air  is  musical ;  the  total  earth 
Puts  on  new  beauty,  and  within  the  arms 
Of  girding  ocean  dreams  her  time  away, 
And  visions  bright  to-morrows  ! 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  369 

(Enter  MALATESTA  and  PEPE.) 

Malatesta.  Mount,  to  horse  ! 

Pepe.  (Aside.)  Good  Lord!  he's  smiling!    What's 

the  matter  now  ? 

Has  anybody  broken  a  leg  or  back  ? 
Has  a  more  monstrous  monster  corne  to  life  ? 
Is    hell   burst   open  ?  —  heaven   burnt   up  ?     What, 

what 

Can  make  yon  eyesore  grin  ?  —  I  say,  my  lord, 
What  cow  has  calved  ? 

Paolo.  Your  mother,  by  the  bleat. 

Pepe.    Right  fairly  answered  —  for  a  gentleman  ! 
When  did  you  take  my  trade  up  ? 

Paolo.  When  your  wit 

Went  begging,  sirrah. 

Pepe.  Well  again  !     My  lord, 

I  think  he  '11  do. 

Mai.  For  what  ? 

Pepe.  To  take  my  place. 

Once  fools  were  rare,  and  then  my  office  sped  ; 
But  now  the  world  is  overrun  with  them  : 
One  gets  one 's  fool  in  one  7s  own  family, 
Without  much  searching. 

Mai.  Pepe,  gently  now. 

Lariciotto,  you  are  waited  for.     The  train 
Has  passed  the  gate,  and  halted  there  for  you. 

Lan.    I  go  not  to  Ravenna. 

Mai.  Iley  !  why  not  ? 

Paolo.    For   weighty   reasons,    father.     Will   you 

trust 

Your  greatest  captain,  hope  of  all  the  Guelfs, 
With  crafty  Guido  ?     Should  the  Ghibelins 

VOL.  i.  24 


370  FRAXCESCA    DA     RIMINI. 

Break  faith,  and  shut  Lanciotto  in  their  walls  — 
Sure  the  temptation  would  be  great  enough  — 
What  would  you  do  ? 

Mai.  I  'd  eat  Ravenna  up  ! 

Pepe.    Lord  !  what  an  appetite  ! 

Paolo.  But  Lanciotto 

Would  be  a  precious  hostage. 

Mai.  True  ;  you  're  wise  ; 

Guido  's  a  fox.     Well,  have  it  your  own  way. 
What  is  your  plan  ? 

Paolo.  I  go  there  in  his  place. 

Mai.    Good  !  I  will  send  a  letter  with  the  news. 

Lan.    I  thank  you,  brother.  [Jipartto  PAOLO.] 

Pepe.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  —  0  !  0  !        [Lauyhiny.] 

Mai.   Pepe,  what  now  ? 

Pepe.       0  !  lord,  0  !  —  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !       [Lauyhinff.] 

Paolo.   Well,  giggler  ? 

Pepe.  Hear  my  fable,  uncle. 

Mai.  Ay. 

Pepe.    Once  on  a  time,  Vulcan  sent  Mercury 
To  fetch  dame  Venus  from  a  rornp  in  heaven. 
Well,  they  were  long  in  coming,  as  he  thought ; 
And  so  the  god  of  spits  and  gridirons 
Railed  like  himself — the  devil.     But  —  now  mark  — 
Here  comes  the  moral.     In  a  little  while, 
Vulcan  grew  proud,  because  he  saw  plain  signs 
That  he  should  be  a  father  ;  and  so  he 
Strutted  through  hell,  and  pushed  the  devils  by, 
Like  a  magnified  of  Venire.     Kn>  long, 
His  heir  was  born  ;  but  then  —  ho  !  ho  !  — the  brat 
Had  wings  upon  his  heels,  and  thievish  w.i\  s, 
And  a  vile  squint,  like  errant  Mercury's, 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  311 

Which  honest  Vulcan  could  not  understand ;  — 
Can  you  ? 

Paolo.    'Sdeath  !  fool,  I  '11  have  you  in  the  stocks. 
Father,  your  fool  exceeds  his  privilege. 

Pepe.     (Apart  to  PAOLO.)     Keep  your   own  bounds, 

Paolo.     In  the  stocks 

I  'd  tell  more  fables  than  you  'd  wish  to  hear. 
And  so  ride  forth.     But,  cousin,  don't  forget 
To  take  Lanciotto's  picture  to  the  bride. 
Ask  her  to  choose  between  it  and  yourself. 
I  '11  count  the  moments,  while  she  hesitates, 
And  not  grow  gray  at  it. 

Paolo.  Peace,  varlet,  peace  ! 

Pepe.    (Apart  to  him.)    Ah  !  now  I  have  it.  There  *s 

an  elephant 

Upon  the  scutcheon  ;  show  her  that,  and  say  — 
Here 's  Lanciotto  in  our  heraldry  1 

Paolo.   Here 's  for  your  counsel ! 

[Strikes  PEPE,  who  runs  behind  MALATESTA.] 

Hal.  Son,  son,  have  a  care  ! 

We  who  keep  pets  must  bear  their  pecks  sometimes. 
Poor  knave  !     Ha  !  ha  !  thou  'rt  growing  villanous  ! 

[Laughs  and  pats  PEPE.] 

Pepe.    Another  blow  !  another  life  for  that ! 

[Aside.] 

Paolo.    Farewell,  Lanciotto.    You  arc  dull  again. 

Lan.    Nature  will  rule. 

Mai.  Come,  come  ! 

Lan.  God  speed  you,  brother  ! 

I  am  too  sad  ;  my  smiles  all  turn  to  sighs. 

Paolo.    More    cause   to   haste   me   on  my  happy 
work .  [  Exit  with  MALATESTA. ] 

Pepe.  I  'm  going,  cousiu. 

Lan.  Go. 


372  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Pepe.  Pray,  ask  me  where. 

Lan.    Where,  then  ? 

Pepe.  To  have  my  jewel  carried  home  : 

And,  as  I  'in  wise,  the  carrier  shall  be 
A  thief,  a  thief,  by  Jove  !     The  fashion  's  new. 


Lan.    In  truth,  I  am  too  gloomy  and  irrational. 
Paolo  must  be  right.     I  always  had 
These  moody  hours  and  dark  presentiments, 
Without  mischances  following  after  them. 
The  camp  is  my  abode.     A  neighing  steed, 
A  fiery  onset,  and  a  stubborn  fight, 
Rouse  my  dull  blood,  and  tire  my  body  down 
To  quiet  slumbers  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
And  night  above  me  spreads  her  spangled  tent, 
Lit  by  the  dying  cresset  of  the  moon. 
Ay,  that  is  it;  I  'm  homesick  for  the  camp.      [Exit.} 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  373 


ACT    II. 

SCENE    I.     Ravenna.      A  Room  in   Guide's  Palar*        Enter 
GUIDO  and  a  CARDINAL. 

Cardinal.    I  WARN  thee,  Count. 

Guido.  I  '11  take  the  warning1,  father, 

On  one  condition  :  show  me  but  a  way 
For  safe  escape. 

Car.  I  cannot. 

Gui.  There 's  the  point : 

We  Ghibelins  are  fettered  hand  and  foot. 
There  's  not  a  florin  in  my  treasury  ; 
Not  a  lame  soldier,  I  can  lead  to  war  ; 
Not  one  to  man  the  walls.     A  present  siege, 
Pushed  with  the  wonted  heat  of  Lanciotto, 
Would  deal  Ravenna  such  a  mortal  blow 
As  ages  could  not  mend.     Give  me  but  time 
To  fill  the  drained  arteries  of  the  land. 
The  Guelfs  are  masters,  we  their  slaves  ;  and  we 
Were  wiser  to  confess  it,  ere  the  lash 
Teach  it  too  sternly.     It  is  well  for  you 
To  say  you  love  Francesca.     So  do  I  ; 
But  neither  you  nor  I  have  any  voice 
For  or  against  this  marriage. 

Car.  'T  is  too  true. 

GUI.    Say  we  refuse  :    Why,  then,  before  a  week, 
We  '11  hear  Lanciotto  rapping  at  our  door, 
With  twenty  hundred  ruffians  at  his  back. 
What's  to  say  then  ?  My  lord,  we  waste  our  breath. 


oT  t  FRANCESCA    DA     RIMINI. 

Let  us  look  fortune  in  the  face,  and  draw 
Such  comfort  from  the  wanton  as  we  may. 

Car.    And  yet  I  fear  — 

Gai.  You  fear  !  and  so  do  I. 

I  fear  Lanciotto  as  a  soldier,  though, 
More  than  a  son-in-law. 

Car.  But  have  you  seen  him  ? 

GUI.    Ay,  ay,  and  felt  him,  too.  1  Ve  seen  him 
The  best  battalions  of  my  horse  and  foot 
Down  like  mere  stubble  :  I  have  seen  his  sword 
Hollow  a  square  of  pikemcn,  with  the  ease 
You  'd  scoop  a  melon  out. 

Car.  Report  c1  glares  him 

A  prodigy  of  strength  and  uglii^ss. 

GUI.   Were  he  the  devil  —  But  why  talk  of  this  ?  — 
Here  comes  Francesca. 

Car.  Ah  !  unhappy  child  ! 

GUI.    Look  you,  my  lord !  you  '11  make  the  best 

of  it ; 

You  will  not  whimper.     Add  your  voice  to  mine, 
Or  woe  to  poor  Ravenna  ! 

(Enter  FRANCESCA  and  RITTA.) 

Francesca.  Ha  !  my  lord  — 

And  you,  my  father  !  —  But  do  I  intrude 
Upon  your  counsels  ?    How  severe  you  look  ! 
Shall  I  retire  ? 

GUI.  No,  no. 

Fran.  You  moody  men 

Seem  leagued  against  me.     As  I  passed  the  hall, 
I  met  your  solemn  Dante,  with  huge  strides 
Pacing  in  measure  to  his  stately  verse. 
The  sweeping  sleeves  of  his  broad  scarlet  r<»l'" 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  375 

Blow  out  behind,  like  wide-expanded  wings, 

And  seemed  to  buoy  him  in  his  level  flight. 

Thinking  to  pass,  without  disturbing  him, 

I  stole  on  tip-toe  ;  but  the  poet  paused, 

Subsiding  into  man,  and  steadily 

Bent  on  my  face  the  lustre  of  his  eyes. 

Then,  taking  both  my  trembling  hands  in  his  — 

You  know  how  his  God-troubled  forehead  awes  — 

lie  looked  into  my  eyes,  and  shook  his  head, 

As  if  he  dared  not  speak  of  what  he  saw ; 

Then  muttered,  sighed,  and  slowly  turned  away 

The  weight  of  his  intolerable  brow. 

When  I  glanced  back,  I  saw  him,  as  before, 

Sailing  adown  the  hall  on  out-spread  wings. 

Indeed,  my  lord,  he  should  not  do  these  things  : 

They  strain  the  weakness  of  mortality 

A  jot  too  far.     As  for  poor  Ritta,  she 

Fled  like  a  doe,  the  truant.  • 

Ritta.  Yes,  forsooth  : 

There  's  something  terrible  about  the  man. 
Ugh  !  if  he  touched  me,  I  should  turn  to  ice. 
1  wonder  if  Count  Lanciotto  looks  — 

GUI.    Ritta,  come  here.  [Takes  her  apart.] 

Hit.  My  lord. 

GUI.  ?T  was  my  command, 

You  should  say  nothing  of  Count  Lanciotto. 

Eit.    Nothing,  my  lord. 

GUI.  You  have  said  nothing,  then  ? 

Eit.    Indeed,  my  lord. 

Gui.  ?T  is  well.     Some  years  ago, 

My  daughter  had  a  very  silly  maid, 
Who  told  her  sillier  stories.     So,  one  day, 
This  maiden  whispered  something  I  forbade  — • 


376  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

In  strictest  confidence,  for  she  was  sly  : 
What  happened,  think  you  ? 

Hit.  I  know  not,  my  lord. 

GUI.    I  boiled  her  in  a  pot. 

Bit.  Good  heaven  !  my  lord. 

Gui.    She  did  not  like  it.     I  shall  keep  that  pot 
Ready  for  the  next  boiling.       [  Walks  back  to  the  others.] 

Bit.  Saints  above ! 

I  wonder  if  he  ate  her  !     Boil  me  —  me  ! 
I  '11  roast  or  stew  with  pleasure  ;  but  to  boil 
Implies  a  want  of  tenderness,  —  or  rather 
A  downright  toughness  —  in  the  matter  boiled, 
That's  slanderous  to  a  maiden.    What,  boil  me  — 
Boil  me  !     0  !  mercy,  how  ridiculous  ! 

[Retires,  lavyhing.] 
(Enter  a  Messenger.) 

Messenger.    Letters,   my  lord,   from   great  Prince 
Mulatcsta.  [Presents  them,  and  exit.] 

Gui.    (Aside.)    Hear  him,  ye  gods  !  —  "  from  great 

Prince  Mahitcsta  !  " 

Greeting,  no  (Joubt,  his  little  cousin  Guido. 
AVrell,  well,  just  so  we  see-saw  up  and  down. 

[Reads.] 

'  /•'•  nring  our  treachery"   —  by  heaven,  that 's  blunt, 
And  Malatesta-like  !  —  "he  will  not  send 
His  son,  Landotto,  to  Ravenna,  but" 
But  what  ?  —  a  groom,  a  porter  !'  or  will  he 
Have  his  prey  sent  him  in  an  iron  < 
By  Jove,  he  shall  not  have  her!     0  !  no,  no  ; 
"  He  }ti'ntl.«  ///>•  younger  son,  tlie  Count  Paolo, 
To  fetch  Francesca  back  to  Rimini" 
That's  well,  if  he  had  left  his  reasons  out. 
And,  in  a  postscript  —  by  the  saints,  't  is  droll  !  — 


FRAXCE3CA    DA     RIMINI.  3T1 

"  'T  would  not  be  worth  your  lordship's  while,  to  shut 

Paolo  in  a  prison  ;  for,  my  lord, 

I'll  only  pay  his  ransom  in  plain  steel  : 

Besides,  he  's  not  worth  having."     Is  there  one, 

Save  this  ignoble  ofi'shoot  of  the  Goths, 

Who  'd  write  such  garbage  to  a  gentleman  ? 

Take  that,  and  read  it.  [Gives  letter  to  CARDINAL.] 

Gar.  I  have  done  the  most. 

She  seems  suspicious. 

GUI.  Ritta' s  work. 

Car.  Farewell  !  [Exit.] 

Fran.    Father,  }rou  seem  distempered. 

Gid.  No,  my  child, 

I  am  but  vexed.     Your  husband  's  on  the  road, 
Close  to  Ravenna.     What 's  the  time  of  day  ? 

Fran.    Past  noon,  my  lord. 

Gui.  We  must  be  stirring,  then. 

Fran.    I  do  not  like  this  marriage. 

Gui.  But  I  do. 

Fran.    But  I  do  not.     Poh  !  to  be  given  away, 
Like  a  fine  horse  or  falcon,  to  a  man 
Whose  face  I  never  saw  ! 

Hit.  That's  it,  my  lady. 

Gui.    Ritta,  run  down,  and  see  if  my  great  pot 
Boils  to  your  liking. 

Bit.    (Aside.)  0  !  that  pot  again  ! 

My  lord,  my  heart  betrays  me  ;  but  you  know 
How  true  'tis  to  my  lady.  [Exit.] 

Fran.  What  ails  Ritta? 

Gui.    The  ailing  of  your  sex,  a  running  tongue. 
Francesca,  7t  is  too  late  to  beat  retreat  : 
Old  Malatesta  has  me  —  you,  too,  child  — 
Safe  in  his  clutch.     If  you  are  not  content, 


378  FRAXCESCA    DA     RIMINI. 

I  must  unclose  Ravenna,  and  allow 

His  son  to  take  you.     Poh,  poll !  have  a  soul 

Equal  with  your  estate.     A  prince's  child 

Cannot  choose  husbands.     Her  desires  must  aim, 

Not  at  herself,  but  at  the  public  good. 

Both  as  your  prince  and  father,  I  command  ; 

As  subject  and  good  daughter,  you  '11  obey. 

Fra.i.    I  knew  that  it  must  be  my  destiny, 
Some  day,  to  give  my  hand  without  my  heart ; 
But- 

Gui.  But,  and  I  will  but  you  back  again  ! 

When  Guido  da  Polenta  says  to  you, 
Daughter,  you  must  be  married,  —  what  were  best  ? 

Fran.    'T  were   best  Francesca,   of  the   self-same 

name, 
Made  herself  bridal-garments.  [Laughing.] 

Gui.  Right ! 

Fran.  My  lord, 

Is  Lanciotto  handsome  —  ugly  —  fair  — 
Black  —  sallow  —  crabbed  —  kind  —  or  what  is  he  ? 

Gui.    You  '11  know  ere  long.  I  could  not  alter  him, 
To  please  your  taste. 

Fran.  You  always  put  me  off; 

You  never  have  a  whisper  in  his  praise. 

Gui.    The  world  reports  it.  —  Count  my  soldiers' 

scars, 
And  you  may  sum  Lanciotto's  glories,  up. 

Fran.    I  shall  be  dutiful,  to  please  you.  fatlior. 
If  aught  befall  me  through  my  blind  submission, 
Though  I  may  suffer,  you  must  bear  the  sin. 
Beware,  my  lord,  for  your  own  peace  of  mind  ! 
My  part  has  been  obedience  ;  and  now 
I  play  it  over  to  complete  my  task  ; 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI.  379 

And  it  shall  be  with  smiles  upon  my  lips,  — 
Heaven  only  knows  with  what  a  sinking  heart ! 

[Exeunt.] 


SCENE  II. 

The  Same.  Before  the  Gates  of  the  City.  The  walls  hung  with 
banners,  flowesr,  fyc.,  and  crowded  with  citizens.  At  the  side 
of  the  scene  is  a  canopied  dais,  with  chairs  of  state  upon  it. 
Music,  bells,  shouts,  and  other  sounds  of  rejoicing,  are  occa 
sionally  heard.  Enter  GUIDO,  the  CARDINAL,  Noblemen, 
Kniyhts,  Guards,  $c.,  with  banners,  arms,  fyc. 

Guido.   My  lord,  I  '11  have  it  so.     You  talk  in  vain. 
Paolo  is  a  marvel  in  his  way  : 
I  've  seen  him  often.     If  Francesca  take 
A  fancy  to  his  beauty,  all  the  better ; 
For  she  may  think  that  he  and  Lanciotto- 
Are  like  as  blossoms  of  one  parent  branch. 
In  truth,  they  are,  so  far  as  features  go  — 
Heaven  help  the  rest !     Get  her  to  Rimini, 
By  any  means,  and  I  shall  be  content. 
The  fraud  cannot  last  long;  but  long  enough 
To  win  her  favor  to  the  family. 

Cardinal.    'T  is  a  dull  trick.     Thou  hast  not  dealt 

with  her 

Wisely  nor  kindly,  and  I  dread  the  end. 
If,  when  this  marriage  was  enjoined  on  thee, 
Thou  hadst  informed  Francesca  of  the  truth, 
And  said,  Now,  daughter,  choos,e  between 
Thy  peace  and  all  Ravenna's  ;  who  that  knows 
The  constant  nature  of  her  noble  heart 
Could  doubt  the  issue  ?     There  'd  have  been  some 
tears, 


330  FRAXCE3CA    DA    RIMINI. 

Some  frightful  fancies  of  her  husband's  looks  ; 
And  then  she  'd  calmly  walk  up  to  her  fate, 
And  bear  it  bravely.     Afterwards,  perchance, 
Lanciotto  might  prove  better  than  her  fears,  — 
No  one  denies  him  many  an  excellence,  — 
And  all  go  happily.     But,  as  thou  wouldst  plot, 
She  '11  be  prepared  to  see  a  paragon, 
And  find  a  satyr.     It  is  dangerous. 
Treachery  with  enemies  is  bad  enough, 
With  friends  't  is  fatal. 

GUI.  Has  your  lordship  done  ? 

Car.   Never,  Count  Guido,  wMth  so  good  a  text 
Do  not  stand  looking  sideways  at  the  truth  ; 
Craft  has  become  thy  nature.     Go  to  her. 

GUI.    I  have  not  heart. 

Car.  I  have.  [Goi 

Gid.  Hold,  Cardinal  ! 

My  plan  is  better.     Get  her  off  my  hands, 
And  I  care  not. 

Car.  What  will  she  say  of  thee, 

In  Rimini,  when  she  detects  the  cheat? 

GUI.    I  '11  stop  my  ears  up. 

Car.  Guido,  thou  art  weak, 

And  lack  the  common  fortitude  of  man. 

Gui.    And  you  abuse  the  license  of  your  garb, 
To  lesson  me.     My  lord,  I  do  not  dare 
To  move  a  finger  in  these  marriage-rites. 
Francesca  is  a  sacrifice,  I  kimw,-- 
A  limb  delivered  to  the  surgeon's  knife. 
To  save  our  general  health.     A  truce  to  this. 
Paolo  has  the  business  in  his  hands  : 
Let  him  arrange  it  as  he  will ;  for  I 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI  381 

Will  give  Count  Malatesta  no  pretext 
To  recommence  the  war. 

Car.  Farewell,  my  lord. 

1  '11  neither  help  nor  countenance  a  fraud. 
You  crafty  men  take  comfort  to  yourselves, 
Saying,  deceit  dies  with  discovery. 
;T  is  false  ;  each  wicked  action  spawns  a  brood, 
And  lives  in  its  succession.     You,  who  shake 
Man's  moral  nature  into  storm,  should  know 
That  the  last  wave  which  passes  from  your  sight 
Rolls  in  and  breaks  upon  eternity  !  [Exit.] 

GUI.    Why,    that  7s    a    very   grand    and    solemn 

thought : 

I  '11  mention  it  to  Dante.     Gentlemen, 
What  see  they  from  the  wall  ? 

Nobleman  The  train,  my  lord. 

Gui.    Inform  my  daughter. 

Nob.  She  is  here,  my  lord. 

(Enter  FRANCESCA,  RITTA,  Ladies,  Attendants,  fyc.) 

Francesca.    See,  father,  what  a  merry  face  I  have, 
And  how  my  ladies  glisten !     I  will  try 
To  do  my  utmost,  in  my  love  for  you 
And  the  good  people  of  Ravenna.     Now, 
As  the  first  shock  is  over,  I  expect 
To  feel  quite  happy.     I  will  wed  the  Count, 
Be  he  whatever  he  may.     I  do  not  speak 
In  giddy  recklessness.     I  've  weighed  it  all,  — 
'T  wixt  hope  and  fear,  knowledge  and  ignorance,  — 
And  reasoned  out  my  duty  to  your  wish. 
I  have  no  yearnings  towards  another  love  : 
So,  if  I  show  my  husband  a  desire 
To  fill  the  place  with  which  he  honors  me, 


382  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMIXT. 

According  to  its  duties,  even  he  — 

Were  he  less  noble  than  Count  Lanciotto  — 

Must  smile  upon  my  efforts,  and  reward 

Good  will  with  willing  grace.     One  pang  remains. 

Parting  from  home  and  kindred  is  a  thing 

None  but  the  heartless,  or  the  miserable, 

Can  do  without  a  tear.     This  home  of  mine 

lias  filled  my  heart  with  two-fold  happiness, 

Taking  and  giving  love  abundantly. 

Farewell,  Ravenna  !     If  I  bless  thee  not, 

;T  is  that  thou   seem'st   too   blessed ;    and   't  were 

strange 
In  me  to  offer  what  thou  'st  always  given. 

Gui.    (Aside.)     This  is  too  much !     If  she  would 

rail  a  while 
At  me  arid  fortune,  it  could  be  endured. 

[Shouts,  music,  SfC.  within.] 

Fran.    Ha!  there's  the  van  just  breaking  through 

the  wood ! 

Music  !  that 's  well ;  a  welcome  forerunner. 
Now,  Ritta  —  here  —  come  talk  to  me.     Alas  ! 
How  my  heart  trembl  ;s  !     What  a  world  to  me 
Lies  'neath  the  glitter  of  yon  cavalcade  ! 
Is  that  the  Count  ? 

Riita.  Upon  the  dapple-gray  ? 

Fran.   Yes,  yes. 

Hit.  No  ;  that  '?  his  — 

Gui.    (Apart  to  her.)      Ritta! 

Bit.  \  Y  :  that 's  —  that  's  — 

Gui.    Ritta,  the  pot !      [Apart  to  her.] 

Rit.  0  !  but  this  lying  chokes  !     [Aside.] 

Ay,  that 's  Count  Somebody,  from  Rimini. 

Fran.    I  knew  it  was.     Is  that  not  glorious  ? 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  383 

Hit.    My  lady,  what  ? 

Fran.  To  see  a  cavalier 

Sit  on  his  steed  with  such  familiar  grace. 

Bit.    To  see  a  man  astraddle  on  a  horse  ! 
It  don't  seem  much  to  me. 

Fran.  Fie  !  stupid  girl ! 

But  mark  the  minstrels  thronging  round  the  Coun   i 
All !  that  is  more  than  gallant  horsemanship. 
The  soul  that  feeds  itself  on  poesy, 
Is  of  a  quality  more  fine  and  rare 
Than  Heaven  allows  the  ruder  multitude. 
I  tell  you,  Ritta,  when  you  sec  a  man 
Beloved  by  poets,  made  the  theme  of  song, 
And  chaunted  down  to  ages,  as  a  gift 
Fit  for  the  rich  embalmment  of  their  verse, 
There  's  more  about  him  than  the  patron's  gold. 
If  that 's  the  gentleman  my  father  chose, 
He  must  have  picked  him  out  from  all  the  world. 
The  Count  alights.     Why,  what  a  noble  grace 
Runs  through  his  slightest  action  !     Are  you  sad  \ 
You  too,  my  father  ?     Have  I  given  you  cause  ? 
I  am  content.     If  Lanciotto's  mind 
Bear  any  impress  of  his  fair  outside, 
We  shall  not  quarrel  ere  our  marriage-day. 
Can  I  say  more  ?     My  blushes  speak  for  me  : 
Interpret  them  as  modesty's  excuse 
For  the  short-comings  of  a  maiden's  speech. 

Rit.    Alas  !  dear  lady  !     [Aside.] 

Grid.    (Aside.)     'Sdeath  !  my  plot  has  failed, 
By  overworking  its  design.     Come,  come  ; 
Get  to  your  places.     See,  the  Count  draws  nigh. 

(Guino  and  FRANCESCA  seat  themselves  upon  the  dais,  surrounded 
by  RITTA,  Ladies,   Attendants,   Guards,  fyc,     Music-  shouts, 


VS4  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

ringing  of  bells,  $c.  Enter  Men-at  arms,  with  banners,  $c. ; 
Pages  bearing  costly  presents  on  cushions  ;  then  PAOLO,  sur 
rounded  by  Noblemen,  Knights,  Minstrels,  $c.,  and  follower 
by  other  Men-at-arms.  They  range  themselves  opposite  the 
dais.) 

Gui.    Ravenna  welcomes  you,  my  lord,  and  I 
Add  my  best  greeting  to  the  general  voice. 
This  peaceful  show  of  arms  from  Rimini 
Is  a  new  pleasure,  stranger  to  our  sense 
Than  if  the  East  blew  zephyrs,  or  the  balm 
Of  Summer  loaded  rough  December's  gales, 
And  turned  his  snows  to  roses. 

Paolo.  Noble  sir, 

We  looked  for  welcome  from  your  courtesy, 
Not  from  your  love  ;  but  this  unhoped  for  sight 
Of  smiling  faces,  and  the  gentle  tone 
In  which  you  greet  us,  leave  us  naught  to  win 
Within  your  hearts.     I  need  not  ask,  my  lord, 
Where  bides  the  precious  object  of  my  search  ; 
For  I  was  sent  to  find  the  fairest  maid 
Ravenna  boasts,  among  her  many  fair. 
I  might  extend  my  travel  many  a  league, 
And  yet  return,  to  take  her  from  your  side. 
I  blush  to  bear  so  rich  a  treasure  home, 
As  pledge  and  hostage  of  a  sluggish  peace  ; 
For  beauty  such  as  hers  was  meant  by  Heaven 
To  spur  our  race  to  gallant  enterprise, 
And  draw  contending  deities  around 
The  dubious  battles  of  a  second  Troy. 

Gai.    Sir  Count,  you  please  to  lavish  on  my  child 
The  high-strained  courtesy  of  chivalry  ; 
Yet  she  has  homely  virtues  that,  1  hope, 
Kay  take  a  deeper  hold  in  Rimini, 


FRANCESCA    DA    KIM1XI.  385 

After  the  fleeting  beauty  of  her  face 
Is  spoiled  by  time,  or  faded  to  the  eye 
By  its  familiar  usage. 

Paolo.  As  a  man 

Who  ever  sees  Heaven's  purpose  in  its  works, 
I  must  suppose  so  rare  a  tabernacle 
Was  framed  for  rarest  virtues.     Pardon  me 
My  public  admiration.     If  my  praise 
Clash  with  propriety,  and  bare  my  words 
To  cooler  judgment,  't  is  not  that  I  wish 
To  win  a  flatterer's  grudged  recompense, 
And  gain  by  falsehood  what  1 7d  win  through  love. 
When  I  have  brushed  my  travel  from  my  garb, 
I  '11  pay  my  court  in  more  befitting  style. 

(J[fusic.     Exit  with  his  train.) 

GUI.    (Advancing.)    Now,  by  the  saints,  Lanciotto's 

deputy 

Stands  in  this  business  with  a  proper  grace, 
Stretching  his  lord's  instructions  till  they  crack. 
A  zealous  envoy  !     Not  a  word  said  he 
Of  Lanciotto  —  not  a  single  word  ; 
But  stood  there,  staring  in  Francesca's  face 
With  his  devouring  eyes.  —  By  Jupiter, 
1  but  half  like  it! 

Fran.    (Advancing.)     Father? 

Gui.  Well,  my  child. 

Fran.   How  do  you  like  — 

GUI.  The  coxcomb  !    I  Ve  done  well ! 

Fran.    No,  no  ;  Count  Lanciotto  ? 

GUI.  Well  enough. 

But  hang  this  fellow  —  hang  your  deputies  ! 
I  '11  never  woo  by  proxy. 

VOL.  i.  25 


380  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Fran.  Deputies ! 

And  woo  by  proxy  ! 

GUI.  Come  to  me  anon. 

I  '11  strip  this  cuckoo  of  his  gallantry  ! 

[Exit  with  Guards,  $c.\ 

Fran.    Ritta,  my  father  has  strange  ways  of  late. 

Ril.    I  wonder  not. 

Fran.  You  wonder  not  ? 

Bit.  No,  lady : 

lie  is  so  used  to  playing  double  games, 
That  even  you  must  come  in  for  your  share. 
Plague  on  his  boiling !     1  will  out  with  it.       [Aside.] 
Lady,  the  gentleman  who  passed  the  gates  — 

Fran.    Count  Lanciotto  ?     As  I  hope  for  grace, 
A  gallant  gentleman  !     How  well  he  spoke  ! 
With  what  sincere  and  earnest  courtesy 
The  rounded  phrases  glided  from  his  lips ! 
He  spoke  in  compliments  that  seemed  like  truth. 
Metliinks  I  'd  listen  through  a  summer's  day, 
To  hear  him  woo. —  And  he  must  woo  to  me  — 
I  '11  have  our  privilege  —  he  must  woo  a  space, 
Ere  I  '11  be  won,  I  promise. 

Hit.  But,  my  lady, 

He  '11  woo  you  for  another. 

Fran.  lie? — ha!  ha!     [Laughing.'} 

I  should  not  think  it  from  the  prologue,  Ritta. 

Hit.    Nor  I. 

Fran.  Nor  any  one. 

Hit.  'T  is  not  the  Count  — 

'T  is  not  Count  Lanciotto. 

Fran.  Gracious  saints  I 

Have  you  gone  crazy  ?     Ritta,  speak  again, 
Before  I  chide  you. 


FRANCE3CA    DA    RIMINI.  387 

Kit-  7T  is  the  solemn  truth. 

That  gentleman  is  Count  Paolo,  lady, 
Brother  to  Lanciotto,  and  no  more 
Like  him  than  —  than  — 

Fran.  Than  what  ? 

Bit-  Count  Guido's  pot, 

For  boiling  waiting-maids,  is  like  the  bath 
Of  Venus  on  the  arras. 

Fran.  Are  you  mad,  — 

Quite  mad,  poor  Ritta  ? 

•Bit-  Yes  ;  perhaps  I  am. 

Perhaps  Lanciotto  is  a  proper  man  — 
Perhaps  I  lie  —  perhaps  I  speak  the  truth  - 
Perhaps  I  gabble  like  a  fool.     0  !  heavens, 
That  dreadful  pot ! 

Fran.  Dear  Ritta !  — 

Rtt>  By  the  mass, 

They  shall  not  cozen  you,  my  gentle  mistress  ! 
If  my  lord  Guido  boiled  me,  do  you  think 
I  should  be  served  up  to  the  garrison, 
By  way  of  pottage  ?     Surely  they  would  not  waste 
me. 

Fran.    You  are  an  idle  talker.     Pranks  like  these 
Fit  your  companions.     You  forget  yourself. 

Rit.    Not  you,  though,  lady.     Boldly  I  repeat, 
That  he  who  looked  so  fair,  and  talked  so  sweet, 
Who  rode  from  Rimini  upon  a  horse 
Of  dapple-gray,  and  walked  through  yonder  gate, 
Is  not  Count  Lanciotto. 

Fran.  This  you  mean  ? 

Hit.    I  do,  indeed  ! 

Fran.  Then  I  am  more  abused  — 

More  tricked,  more  trifled  with,  more  played  upon  — 


388  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI. 

By  him,  my  father,  and  by  all  of  you, 
Than  anything,  suspected  of  a  heart, 
Was  ever  yet  1 

Rit.  In  Count  Paolo,  lady, 

Perchance  there  was  no  meditated  fraud. 

Fran.    How,  dare  you  plead  for  him  ? 

Rit.  I  but  suppose  : 

Though  in  your  father  —  0  !  I  dare  not  say. 

Fran.    I  dare.     It  was  ill  usage,  gross  abuse, 
Treason  to  duty,  meanness,  craft  —  dishonor  ! 
What  if  I  'd  thrown  my  heart  before  the  feet 
Of  this  sham  husband  !  cast  my  love  away 
Upon  a  counterfeit !     I  was  prepared 
To  force  affection  upon  any  man 
Called  Lanciotto.     Anything  of  silk, 
Tinsel,  and  gewgaws,  if  he  bore  that  name, 
Might  have  received  me  for  the  asking.     Yes, 
I  was  inclined  to  venture  more  than  half 
In  this  base  business  —  shame  upon  my  thoughts  !  — 
All  for  rny  father's  peace  and  poor  Ravenna's. 
And  this  Paolo,  with  his  cavalcade, 
His  minstrels,  music,  and  his  pretty  airs, 
His  showy  person,  and  his  fulsome  talk, 
Almost  made  me  contented  with  my  lot. 

0  !  what  a  fool !  —  in  faith,  I  merit  it  — 
Trapped  by  mere  glitter !     What  an  easy  fool ! 
Ha!  ha  !     I  'm  glad  it  went  no  further,  girl  : 

\_Ltnujhiny.~ 

1  'm  glad  I  kept  my  heart  safe,  after  all. 

There  was  my  cunning.     I  have  paid  them  back, 
I  warrant  you  !     I  '11  marry  Lanciotto  ; 
I  '11  seem  to  shuffle  by  this  treachery.     No  ! 
I  '11  seek  my  father,  put  him  face  to  face 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  389 

With  his  own  falsehood  ;  and  I  '11  stand  between, 
Awful  as  justice,  meting  out  to  him 
Heaven's  dreadful  canons  'gainst  his  conscious  guilt. 
I  '11  marry  Lanciotto.     On  my  faith, 
I  would  not  live  another  wicked  day 
Here,  in  Ravenna,  only  for  the  fear 
That  I  should  take  to  lying,  with  the  rest. 
Ha !  ha !  it  makes  me  merry,  when  I  think 
How  safe  I  kept  this  little  heart  of  mine  !    [Laughing.] 

[Exit,  with  Attendants,  #c.] 

Eit.    So,  'tis  all  ended  —  all  except  my  boiling, 
And  that  will  make  a  holiday  for  some. 
Perhaps  I  'm  selfish.     Fagot,  axe,  and  gallows, 
They  have  their  .uses,  after  all.     They  give 
The  lookers-on  a  deal  of  harmless  sport. 
Though  one  may  suffer,  twenty  hundred  laugh  ; 
And  that 's  a  point  gained.     I  have  seen  a  man  — • 
Poor  Dora's  uncle  —  shake  himself  with  glee, 
At  the  bare  thought  of  the  ridiculous  style 
In  which  some  villain  died.     "  Dancing,"  quoth  he, 
"  To  the  poor  music  of  a  single  string ! 
Biting,"  quoth  he,   "  after  his  head  was  off! 
What  use  of  that  ?  "     Or,   "  Shivering,"  quoth  he, 
"As  from  an  ague,  with  his  beard  afire  !  " 
And  then  he  'd  roar  until  his  ugly  mouth 
Split  at  the  corners.     But  to  see  me  boil — • 

0  !  that  will  be  the  queerest  thing  of  all ! 

1  wonder  if  they  '11  put  me  in  a  bag, 
Like  a  great  suet-ball  ?     I  '11  go,  and  tell 
Count  Guido,  on  the  instant.     How  he  '11  laugh 
To  think  his  pot  has  got  an  occupant ! 

I  wonder  if  he  really  takes  delight 

In  such  amusements  ?     Nay,  I  have  kept  faith : 


390  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

I  only  said  the  man  was  not  Lanciotto  ; 
No  word  of  Lanciotto's  ugliness. 
I  may  escape  the  pot,  for  all.     Pardee ! 
I  wonder  if  they  '11  put  me  in  a  bag ! 

[Exit,  laughing.  ] 


SCENE    HI. 

TJie  Same.     A  Room  in    Guidons  Palace.     Enter  GUIDO  and 

RlTTA. 

Eitta.    There  now,  my  lord,  that  is  the  whole  of  it: 
I  love  my  mistress  more  than  I  fear  you. 
If  I  could  save  her  finger  from  the  axe, 
I  'd  give  my  head  to  do  it.     So,  my  lord, 
I  am  prepared  to  stew. 

Guido.  Boil,  Ritta,  boil. 

Hit.   No  ;  I  prefer  to  stew. 

GUI.  And  I  to  boil. 

Rit.    ;T  is  very  hard,  my  lord,  I  cannot  choose 
My  way  of  cooking.     I  shall  laugh,  I  vow, 
In  the  grim  headsman's  face,  when  I  remember 
That  I  am  dying  for  my  lady's,  love. 
I  leave  no  one  to  shed  a  tear  for  me ; 
Father  nor  mother,  kith  nor  kin,  have  I, 
To  say,  "  Poor  Ritta !  "  o'er  my  lifeless  clay. 
They  all  have  gone  before  me,  and  't  were  well 
If  I  could  hurry  after  them. 

Gui.  Poor  child !          [JlsUe 

But,  baggage,  said  you  aught  of  Lanciotto  ? 

Eit.    No,  not  a  word  ;  and  he  's  so  ugly,  too  ! 

Gui.    Is  he  so  ugly  ? 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  391 

• 

Hit-  Ugly  !   he  is  worse 

Than  Pilate  on  the  hangings. 

Gui.  Hold  your  tongue 

Here,  and  at  Rimini,  about  the  Count, 
Arid  you  shall  prosper. 

Bit.  Am  I  not  to  boil  ? 

Gid.    No,  child.     But  be  discreet  at  Hi  mini. 
Old  Malatesta  is  a  dreadful  man  — 
Far  worse  than  I  —  he  bakes  his  people,  Ritta  ; 
Lards  them,  like  geese,  and  bakes  them  in  an  oven. 

Hit.    Fire  is  my  fate,  I  see  that. 

GUI.  Have  a  care 

It  do  not  follow  you  beyond  this  world. 
Where  is  your  mistress  ? 

Bit.  In  her  room,  my  lord. 

After  I  told  her  of  the  Count  Paolo, 
She  flew  to  have  an  interview  with  you  ; 
But  on  the  way  —  I  know  not  why  it  was  — 
She  darted  to  her  chamber,  and  there  stays 
Weeping  in  silence.     It  would  do  you  good  — 
More  than  a  hundred  sermons — just  to  see 
A  single  tear,  indeed  it  would,  my  lord. 

Gui.    Ila  !  you  are  saucy.     I  have  humored  you 
Past  prudence,  malpert !     Get  you  to  your  room  I 

[Exit  RITTA.] 

More  of  my  blood  runs  in  yon  damsel's  veins 
Than  the  world  knows.     Her  mother  to  a  shade ; 
The  same  high  spirit,  and  strange  martyr-wish 
To  sacrifice  herself,  body  and  soul, 
For  some  loved  end.     All  that  she  did  for  me  ;        . 
And  yet  I  loved  her  not.     0  !  memory  ! 
The  darkest  future  has  a  ray  of  hope, 
But  thou  art  blacker  than  the  sepulchre  ! 


392  FRANCE3CA    DA    RIMINI. 

% 

Thy  horrid  shapes  lie  round,  like  scattered  bones, 

Hopeless  forever  !     I  am  sick  at  heart. 

The  past  crowds  on  the  present  :  as  I  sowed, 

So  am  I  reaping.     Shadows  from  myself 

Fall  on  the  picture,  as  I  trace  anew 

These  rising  spectres  of  my  early  life, 

And  add  their  gloom  to  what  was  dark  before. 

0  !  memory,  memory  1     How  my  temples  throb  ! 


(Enter  FRANCESCA,  hastily.) 

Francesco,.    My  lord,  this  outrage  —  (He  looks  up.) 

Father,  are  you  ill  ? 

You  seem  unhappy.     Have  I  troubled  you  ? 
You  heard  how  passionate  and  bad  I  was, 
When  Ritta  told  me  of  the  Count  Paolo. 
Dear  father,  calm  yourself;  and  let  me  ask 
A  child's  forgiveness.     'T  was  undutiful 
To  doubt  your  wisdom.     It  is  over  now. 
I  only  thought  you  might  have  trusted  me 
With  any  counsel. 

Gui.   \jlsile.)     Would  I  had  ! 

Fran.  Ah  !  well, 

I  understand  it  all,  and  you  were  right. 
Only  the  danger  of  it.     Think,  my  lord, 
If  I  had  loved  this  man  at  the  first  sight: 
We  all  have  heard  of  such  things.     Think,  again, 
If  I  had  loved  him  —  as  I  then  supposed 
You  wished  me  to  —  't  would  have  been  very  sad. 
Hut  no,  dear  sir,  I  kept  my  heart  secure, 
Nor  will  I  loose  it  till  you  give  the  word. 
I  'in  wiser  than  you  thought  me,  you  perceive. 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  393 

But  when  we  saw  him,  face  to  face,  together, 
Surely  you  might  have  told  me  then. 

GUI.  Francesca, 

My  eyes  are  old  —  I  did  not  clearly  see  — • 
Faith,  it  escaped  my  thoughts.     Some  other  things 
Came  in  my  head.     I  was  as  ignorant 
Of  Count  Paolo's  coming  as  yourself. 
The  brothers  are  so  like. 

Fran.  Indeed  ? 

GUI.  Yes,  yes. 

One  is  the  other's  counterpart,  in  fact ; 
And  even  now  it  may  not  be  —  0  !  shame  ! 
I  lie  by  habit.     [Aside.] 

Fran.  Then  there  is  a  hope  ? 

lie  may  be  Lanciotto,  after  all  ? 
0!  joy- 

(Enter  a  Servant.) 

Servant.    The  Count  Paolo.  [Exit.] 

Fran.  Misery ! 

That  name  was  not  Lanciotto  ! 

GUI.  Farewell,  child. 

I  '11  leave  you  with  the  Count :  he  '11  make  it  plain. 
It  seems  'twas  Count  Paolo.  [Going.] 

Fran.  Father ! 

Gui.  Well. 

Fran.    You  knew  it  from  the  first!     (Exit  GUIDO.) 

Let  me  begone  : 

I  could  not  look  him  in  the  face  again 
With  the  old  faith.     Besides,  't  would  anger  him 
To  have  a  living  witness  of  his  fraud 
Ever  before  him  ;  and  I  could  not  trust  — 
Strive  as  I  might  —  my  happiness  to  him, 


391  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

As  once  I  did.     I  could  not  lay  my  hand 

Upon  his  shoulder,  and  look  up  to  him, 

Saying,  Dear  father,  pilot  me  along 

Past  this  dread  rock,  through  yonder  narrow  strait. 

Saints,  no  !     The  gold  that  gave  my  life  away 

Might,  even  then,  be  rattling  in  his  purse, 

Warm  from  the  buyer's  hand.    Look  on  me,  Heaven  ! 

Him  thou  didst  sanctify  before  my  eyes, 

Him  thou  didst  charge,  as  thy  great  deputy, 

With  guardianship  of  a  weak  orphan  girl, 

Has  fallen  from  grace,  has  paltered  with  his  trust  ; 

I  have  no  mother  to  receive  thy  charge,  — 

0  !  take  it  on  thyself;  and  when  I  err, 

Through  mortal  blindness,  Heaven,  be  thou  my  guide  ! 

Worse  cannot  fall  me.     Though  my  husband  lack 

A  parent's  tenderness,  he  yet  may  have 

Faith,  truth,  and  honor  —  the  immortal  bonds 

That  knit  together  honest  hearts  as  one. 

Let  me  away  to  Rimini.     Alas  ! 

It  wrings  my  heart  to  have  outlived  the  day 

That  I  can  leave  my  home  with  no  regret  !     [ 


(Enter  PAOLO.) 

Paolo.    Pray,  pardon  me. 

Fran.  You  are  quite  welcome,  Count 

A  foolish  tear,  a  weakness,  nothing  more  : 
But  present  weeping  clears  our  future  sight. 
They  tell  me  you  are  love's  commissinm-r. 
A  kind  of  broker  in  the  trade  of  hearts  : 
Is  it  your  usual  business  ?  or  may  I 
Flatter  myself,  by  claiming  this  essay 
As  your  first  effort  ? 

Paolo.  Lady,  I  believed 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  395 

My  post,  at  starting,  one  of  weight  and  trust ; 
When  I  beheld  you,  I  concluded  it 
A  charge  of  honor  and  high  dignity. 
I  did  not  think  to  hear  you  underrate 
Your  own  importance,  by  dishonoring  me. 

Fran.     You  are  severe,  my  lord. 

Paolo.  No,  not  severe  ; 

Say  candid,  rather.     I  am  somewhat  hurt 
By  my  reception.     If  I  feel  the  wound, 
"T  is  not  because  I  suffer  from  the  jest, 
But  that  your  lips  should  deal  it. 

Fran.  Compliments 

Appear  to  be  the  staple  of  your  speech. 
You  ravish  one  with  courtesy,  you  pour 
Fine  words  upon  one,  till  the  listening  head 
Is  bowed  with  sweetness.    Sir,  your  talk  is  drugged  ; 
There  's  secret  poppy  in  your  sugared  phrase  : 
I  '11  taste  before  I  take  it. 

Paolo.  Gentle  lady  — 

Fran.    I  am  not  gentle,  or  I  missed  my  aim. 
I  am  no  hawk  to  fly  at  every  lure. 
You  courtly  gentlemen  draw  one  broad  rule  — 
All  girls  are  fools.     It  may  be  so,  in  truth, 
Yet  so  I  '11  not  be  treated. 

Paolo.  Have  you  been  ? 

If  I  implied  such  slander  by  my  words, 
They  wrong  my  purpose.     If  I  compliment, 
'T  is  not  from  habit,  but  because  I  thought 
Your  face  deserved  my  homage  as  its  due. 
When  I  have  clearer  insight,  and  you  spread 
Your  inner  nature  o'er  your  lineaments, 
Even  that  face  may  darken  in  the  shades 
Of  my  opinion.     For  mere  loveliness 


390  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI. 

Needs  inward  light  to  keep  it  always  bright. 
All  things  look  badly  to  unfriendly  eyes. 
I  spoke  my  first  impression ;  cooler  thought 
May  work  strange  changes. 

Fran.  Ah  !  Sir  Count,  at  length 

There  's  matter  in  your  words. 

Paolo.  Unpleasant  stuff, 

To  judge  by  your  dark  brows.     I  have  essayed 
Kindness  and  coldness,  yet  you  are  not  pleased. 

Fran.     How  can  I  be  ? 

Paolo.  How,  lady  ? 

Fran.  Ay,  sir,  how  ? 

Your  brother —  my  good  lord  that  is  to  be  — 
Stings  me  with  his  neglect;  and  in  the  place 
lie  should  have  filled,  he  sends  a  go-between, 
A  common  carrier  of  others'  love  ; 
How  can  the  sender,  or  the  person  sent, 
Please  overmuch  ?     Now,  were  I  such  as  you, 
I  'd  be  too  proud  to  travel  round  the  land 
With  other  peoples'  feelings  in  my  heart ; 
Even  to  fill  the  void  which  you  confess 
By  such  employment. 

Paolo.  Lady,  't  is  your  wish 

To  nettle  me,  to  break  my  breeding  down, 
And  see  what  natural  passions  I  have  hidden 
Behind  the  outworks  of  my  etiquette. 
I  neither  own  nor  feel  the  want  of  heart 
With  which  you  charge  me.     You  are  more   than 

cruel ; 

You  rouse  my  nerves  until  they  ache  with  life, 
And  then  pour  fire  upon  them.     For  myself 
1  would  not  speak,  unless  you  had  comprlK'>l. 
My  task  is  odious  to  me.     Since  1 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  397 

Heaven  bear  me  witness  how  my  traitor  heart 
lias  fought  against  my  duty  ;  and  how  oft 
I  wished  myself  in  Lanciotto's  place, 
Or  him  in  mine. 

Fran.  You  riddle. 

Paolo.  Do  I  ?     Well, 

Let  it  remain  unguessed. 

Fran.  You  wished  yourself 

At  Rimini,  or  Lanciotto  here  ? 
You  may  have  reasons. 

Paolo.  Well  interpreted ! 

The  Sphinx  were  simple  in  your  skilful  hands  I 

Fran.     It  has  become  your  turn  to  sneer. 

Paolo.  But  I 

Have  gall  to  feed  my  bitterness,  while  you 
Jest  in  the  wanton  ease  of  happiness. 
Stop  !  there  is  peril  in  our  talk. 

Fran.  As  how  ? 

Paolo.     'T  is  dangerous  to  talk  about  one's  self; 
It  panders  selfishness.     My  duty  waits. 

Fran.     My  future  lord's  affairs  ?     I  quite  forgot 
Count  Lanciotto. 

Paolo.  I,  too,  shame  upon  me  !     [Aside.] 

Fran.     Does  he  resemble  you  ? 

Paolo.  Pray  drop  me,  lady. 

Fran.     Nay,  answer  me. 

Paolo.  Somewhat  —  in  feature. 

Fran.  Ila ! 

Is  he  so  fair  ? 

Paolo.  No,  darker.     He  was  tanned 

In  long  campaigns,  and  battles  hotly  fought, 
While  I  lounged  idly  with  the  troubadours, 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  watchful  sword. 


398  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Fran.     In  person  ? 

Paolo.  He  is  shorter,  I  believe, 

But  broader,  stronger,  more  compactly  knit. 

Fran.     What  of  his  mind  ? 

Paolo  Ah  !  now  you  strike  the  key 

A  mind  just  fitted  to  his  history, 
An  equal  balance  'twixt  desert  and  fame. 
No  future  chronicler  shall  say  of  him, 
His  fame  outran  his  merit ;  or  his  merit 
Halted  behind  some  adverse  circumstance, 
And  never  won  the  glory  it  deserved. 
My  love  might  weary  you,  if  I  rehearsed 
The  simple  beauty  of  his  character ; 
His  grandeur  and  his  gentleness  of  heart, 
His  warlike  fire  and  peaceful  love,  his  faith, 
His  courtesy,  his  truth.     I  '11  not  deny 
Some  human  weakness,  to  attract  our  love, 
Harbors  in  him,  as  in  the  rest  of  us. 
Sometimes  against  our  city's  enemies 
He  thunders  in  the  distance,  and  devotes 
Their  homes  to  ruin.     When  the  brand  has  fallen, 
He  ever  follows  with  a  healing  rain, 
And  in  his  pity  shoulders  by  revenge. 
A  thorough  soldier,  lady.     He  grasps  crowns, 
While  I  pick  at  the  laurel. 

Fran.  Stay,  my -lord  ! 

I  asked  your  brother's  value,  with  no  wish 
To  hear  you  underrate  yourself.     Your  worth 
May  rise  in  passing  through  another's  lips. 
Lanciotto  is  perfection,  then  ? 

Paolo.  To  me  : 

Others  may  think  my  brother  over-nice 
Upon  the  point  of  honor  ;  over-keen 


FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  399 

To  take  offence  where  no  offence  is  meant ; 

A  thought  too  prodigal  of  human  life, 

Holding  it  naught  when  weighed  against  a  wrong  ; 

Suspicious  of  the  motives  of  his  friends  ; 

Distrustful  of  his  own  high  excellence  ; 

And  with  a  certain  gloom  of  temperament, 

When  thus  disturbed,  that  makes  him  terrible 

And  rash  in  action.      I  have  heard  of  this  ; 

I  never  felt  it.     I  distress  you,  lady  ? 

Perhaps  I  throw  these  points  too  much  in  shade, 

By  catching  at  an  enemy's  report. 

But,  then,  Lanciotto  said,  "  You  '11  speak  of  me, 

Not  as  I  ought  to  be,  but  as  I  am." 

He  loathes  deceit. 

Fran.  That  ;s  noble  !     Have  you  done  ? 

I  have  observed  a  strange  reserve,  at  times, 
An  over-carefulness  in  choosing  words, 
Both  in  my  father  and  his  nearest  friends, 
When  speaking  of  your  brother  ;  as  if  they 
Picked  their  way  slowly  over  rocky  ground, 
Fearing  to  stumble.     Ritta,  too,  my  maid, 
When  her  tongue  rattles  on  in  full  career, 
Stops  at  your  brother's  name,  and  with  a  sigh 
Settles  herself  to  dismal  silence.     Count, 
These  things  have  troubled  me.     From  you  I  look 
For  perfect  frankness.     Is  there  naught  withheld  ? 

Paolo.    (Aside.)     0,   base  temptation  !     What  if  I 

betray 

His  crippled  person  —  imitate  his  limp  — 
Laugh  at  his  hip,  his  back,  his  sullen  moods 
Of  childish  superstition  ?  —  tread  his  heart 
Under  my  feet,  to  climb  into  his  place  ?  — 
Use  his  own  warrant  'gainst  himself;  and  say, 


400  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Because  I  loved  her,  and  misjudged  your  jest, 
Therefore  I  stole  her  ?  Why,  a  common  thief 
Would  hang  for  just  such  thinking  !  Ila  !  ha  !  ha  I 


I  reckon  on  her  love,  as  if  I  held 
The  counsels  of  her  bosom.     No,  I  swear, 
Francesca  would  despise  so  mean  a  deed. 
Have  I  no  honor  either  ?     Are  my  thoughts 
All  bound  by  her  opinion  ? 

Fran.  This  is  strange  ! 

Is  Lanciotto's  name  a  spell  to  all  ? 
I  ask  a  simple  question,  and  straight  you 
Start  to  one  side,  and  mutter  to  yourself, 
And  laugh,  and  groan,  and  play  the  lunatic, 
In  such  a  style  that  you  astound  me  more 
Than  all  the  others.     It  appears  to  me 
I  have  been  singled  as  a  common  dupe 
By  every  one.     What  mystery  is  this 
Surrounds  Count  Lanciotto  ?     If  there  be 
A  single  creature  in  the  universe 
Who  has  a  right  to  know  him  as  he  is, 
I  am  that  one. 

Paolo.  I  grant  it.     You  shall  see, 

And  shape  your  judgment  by  your  own  remark. 
All  that  my  honor  calls  for  I  have  said. 

Fran.     I  am  content.     Unless  I  greatly  err, 
Heaven    made    your    breast    the    seat    of    honest 

thoughts. 

You  know,  my  lord,  that,  once  at  Rimini, 
There  can  be  no  retreat  for  me.  By  you, 
Here  at  Ravenna,  in  your  brother's  name, 
I  shall  be  solemnly  betrothed.  And  now 
I  thus  extend  my  maiden  hand  to  you  ; 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  401 

If  you  are  conscious  of  no  secret  guilt, 
Take  it. 

Paolo.      I  do.  [Takes  her  hand.] 

Fran.  You  tremble  ! 

Paolo.  With  the  hand, 

Not  with  the  obligation. 

Fran.  Farewell,  Count ! 

'T  were  cruel  to  tax  your  stock  of  compliments, 
That  waste  their  sweets  upon  a  trammelled  heart ; 
Go  fly  your  fancies  at  some  freer  game.  [Exit.] 

Paolo.     0,  heaven,  if  I  have  faltered  and  am  weak, 
'T  is  from  my  nature  !     Fancies,  more  accursed 
Than     haunt    a    murderer's     bedside,    throng     my 

brain  — 

Temptations,  such  as  mortal  never  bore 
Since  Satan  whispered  in  the  ear  of  Eve, 
Sing  in  my  ear  —  and  all,  all  are  accursed  I 
At  heart  I  have  betrayed  my  brother's  trust, 
Francesca's  openly.     Turn  where  I  will, 
As  if  enclosed  within  a  mirrored  hall, 
I  see  a  traitor.     Now  to  stand  erect, 
Firm  on  my  base  of  manly  constancy  ; 
Or,  if  I  stagger,  let  me  never  quit 
The  homely  path  of  duty,  for  the  ways 
That  bloom  and  glitter  with  seductive  sin  !     [Exit.] 

VOL.  i.  26 


FRAXCESCA    DA    RIUI.VI. 


ACT     III. 

SCENE  I.     Rimini.     A  Room  in  the  Castle.     LAXCIOTTO  discov 
ered  reading. 

Lanciotto.     0  !  fie,  philosophy  !     This  Seneca 
Revels  in  wealth,  and  whines  about  the  poor ! 
Talks  of  starvation  while  his  banquet  waits, 
And  fancies  that  a  two  hours'  appetite 
Tlinm-s  light  on  famine  !     Doubtless  he  can  tell, 
As  he  skips  nimbly  through  his  dancing-girls, 

I  low  sad  it  is  to  limp  about  the  world 

A  sightless  cripple  !     Let  him  feel  the  crutch 
Wearing  ;ig;iinst  his  heart,  and  then  I  'd  hear 
This,  sago  talk  glibly  ;  or  provide  a  pad, 
Stuffed  with  his  soft  philosophy,  to  ease 

I 1  is  aching  shoulder.     Pshaw  !  he  never  felt, 
Or  pain  would  choke  his  frothy  utterance. 

T  is  easy  for  the  doctor  to  compound 

His  nauseous  simples  for  a  sick  man's  health  ; 

But  let  him  swallow  them,  for  his  disease, 

Without  wry  faces.     Ah  !  the  tug  is  there. 

Show  me  philosophy  in  rags,  in  want, 

Sick  of  a  fever,  with  a  bark  like  mine, 

Creeping  to  wisdom  on  these  legs,  and  I 

Will  drink  its  comforts.     Out!  away  with  you  ! 

There  's  no  such  thing  as  real  philosophy  ! 

[Throws  down  the  book.} 
(Enter  PEPE.) 
Here  is  a  sage  who  '11  teach  a  court  i.-r 


FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  403 

The  laws  of  etiquette,  a  statesman  rule, 
A  soldier  discipline,  a  poet  verse, 
And  each  mechanic  his  distinctive  trade  ; 
Yet  bring  him  to  his  motley,  and  how  wide 
He  shoots  from  reason  !     We  can  understand 
All  business  but  our  own,  and  thrust  advice 
In  every  gaping  cranny  of  the  world  ; 
While  habit  shapes  us  to  our  own  dull  work, 
And  reason  nods  above  his  proper  task. 
Just  so  philosophy  would  rectify 
All  things  abroad,  and  be  a  jade  at  home. 
Pepe,  what  think  you  of  the  Emperor's  aim 
Towards  Hungary  ? 

Pepe.  A  most  unwise  design  ; 

For  mark,  my  lord  — 

Lan.  Why,  there !  the  fact  cries  out. 

Here  's  motley  thinking  for  a  diadem  !  — 
Ay,  arid  more  wisely  in  his  own  regard. 

Pepe.     You  flout  me,  cousin. 

Lan.  Have  you  aught  that  7s  new  ?  — 

Some  witty  trifle,  some  absurd  conceit  ? 

Pepe.     Troth,  no. 

Lan.  Why  not  give  up  the  Emperor, 

And  bend  your  wisdom  on  your  duties,  Pepe  ? 

Pepe.     Because   the   Emperor   has  more  need  of 

wisdom 
Than  the  most  barren  fool  of  wit. 

Lan.  Well  said ! 

Mere  habit  brings  the  fool  back  to  his  art. 
This  jester  is  a  rare  philosopher. 
Teach  me  philosophy,  good  fool. 

Pepe.  No  need. 


404  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

You  '11  get  a  teacher  when  you  take  a  wife. 

If  she  do  not  instruct  you  in  more  arts 

Than  Aristotle  ever  thought  upon, 

The  good  old  race  of  woman  has  declined 

Into  a  sort  of  male  stupidity. 

I  had  a  sweetheart  once,  she  lectured  grandly ; 

No  matter  on  what  subject  she  might  hit, 

'T  was  all  the  same,  she  could  talk  and  she  would. 

She  had  no  silly  modesty ;  she  dashed 

Straight  in  the  teeth  of  any  argument, 

And  talked  you  deaf,  dumb,  blind.     Whatever  struck 

Upon  her  ear,  by  some  machinery, 

Set    her  tongue   wagging.     Thank   the   Lord,    she 

died  !  —  ~? 

Dropped  in  the  middle  of  a  fierce  harangue, 
Like  a  spent  horse.     It  was  an  even  thing, 
Whether  she  talked  herself  or  me  to  death. 
The  latest  sign  of  life  was  in  her  tongue  ; 
It  wagged  till  sundown,  like  a  serpent's  tail, 
Long  after  all  the  rest  of  her  was  cold. 
Alas  !  poor  Zippa  ! 

Lan.  Were  you  married,  fool  ? 

Pepe.     Married !     Have    I    the    scars   upon    me  ? 

No; 

I  fell  in  love  ;  and  that  was  bad  enough, 
And  far  enough  for  a  mere  fool  to  go. 
Married !  why,  marriage  is  love's  purgatory, 
Without  a  heaven  beyond. 

Lan.  Fie,  atheist! 

Would  you  abolish  marriage  ? 

Pepe.  Yes. 

Lan.  What  ? 

Pepe.  Yes. 


FRAXCE3CA    DA    RIMINI.  405 

Lan.    Depopulate  the  world  ? 

Pepe.  No  fear  of  that. 

I  'd  have  no  families,  no  Malatesti, 
Strutting'  about  the  land,  with  pedigrees 
And  claims  bequeathed  them  by  their  ancestors ; 
No  fellows  vaporing  of  their  royal  blood  ; 
No  one  to  seize  a  whole  inheritance, 
And  rob  the  other  children  of  the  earth. 
By  Jove  !  you  should  not  know  your  fathers,  even  ! 
I  'd  have  you  spring,  like  toadstools,  from  the  soil  — 
Mere  sons  of  women  —  nothing  more  nor  less  — 
All  base-born,  and  all  equal.     There,  my  lord, 
There  is  a  simple  commonwealth  for  you  ! 
In  which  aspiring  merit  takes  the  lead, 
And  birth  goes  begging. 

Lan.  It  is  so,  in  truth  ; 

And  by  the  simplest  means  I  ever  heard. 

Pepe.    Think  of  it,  cousin.    Tell  it  to  your  friends, 
The  statesmen,  soldiers,  and  philosophers  ; 
Noise  it  about  the  earth,  and  let  it  stir 
The  sluggish  spirits  of  the  multitudes. 
Pursue  the  thought,  scan  it,  from  end  to  end, 
Through  all  its  latent  possibilities. 
It  is  a  great  seed  dropped,  I  promise  you, 
And  it  must  sprout.     Thought  never  wholly  dies  ; 
It  only  wants  a  name  —  a  hard  Greek  name  — 
Some  few  apostles,  who  may  live  on  it  — 
A  crowd  of  listeners,  with  the  average  dulness 
That  man  possesses  —  and  we  organize  ; 
Spread  our  new  doctrine,  like  a  general  plague  ; 
Talk  of  man's  progress  and  development, 
Wrongs  of  society,  the  march  of  mind, 
The  Devil,  Doctor  Faustus,  and  what  not ; 


406  FRAN'CESCA    J)A    KIMINI. 

And,  lo  !  this  pretty  world  turns  upside  down, 
All  with  a  fool's  idea  ! 

Lan.  By  Jupiter, 

You  hit  our  modern  teachers  to  a  hair  ! 
I  knew  this  fool  was  a  philosopher. 
Pepe  is  right.     Mechanic  means  advance  ; 
Nature  bows  down  to  science'  haughty  tread, 
And  turns  the  wheel  of  smutty  artifice  ; 
New  governments  arise,  dilate,  decay, 
And  foster  creeds  and  churches  to  their  tastes  : 
At  each  advance,  we  cry,  "  Behold,  the  end  I " 
Till  some  fresh  wonder  breaks  upon  the  age. 
But  man,  the  moral  creature,  midst  it  all 
Stands  still  unchanged  ;  nor  moves  towards  virtue 

more, 

Nor  comprehends  the  mysteries  in  himself, 
More  than  when  Plato  taught  academies, 
Or  Zeno  thundered  from  his  Attic  porch. 

Pepe.    I  know  not  that ;  I  only  want  my  scheme 
Tried  for  a  while.     I  am  a  politician, 
A  wrongs-of-man  man.     Hang  philosophy  ! 
Let  metaphysics  swallow,  at  a  gulp, 
Its  last  two  syllables,  and  purge  itself 
Clean  of  its  filthy  humors  !     I  am  one 
Ready  for  martyrdom,  for  stake  and  fire, 
If  I  can  make  my  great  idea  take  root ! 
Zounds  !  cousin,  if  I  had  an  audience, 
I  'd  make  you  shudder  at  my  eloquence  ! 
I  have  an  itching  to  reform  tin1  world. 

Lan.    Begin  at  home,  then. 

Pepe.  Home  is  not  my  sphere  ; 

Heaven  picked  me  out  to  teach  my  fellow-men. 
I  am  a  very  firebrand  of  truth  — 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  40T 

A  self-consuming,  doomed,  devoted  brand  — 
That  burn  to  ashes  while  I  light  the  world  ! 
I  feel  it  in  me.     I  am  moved,  inspired, 
Stirred  into  utterance,  by  some  mystic  power 
Of  which  I  am  the  humble  instrument. 

Lan.    A  bad  digestion,  sage,  a  bilious  turn, 
A  gnawing  stomach,  or  a  pinching  shoe. 

Pepe.    0  !  hear,  but  spare  the  scoffer  !     Spare  tho 

wretch 

Who  sneers  at  the  anointed  man  of  truth  I 
When  we  reached  that,  I  and  my  followers 
Would  rend  you  limb  from  limb.     There  !  —  ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  .      [Laughing.] 

Have  I  not  caught  the  slang  these  fellows  preach  ; 
A  grand,  original  idea,  to  back  it ; 
And  all  the  stock  in  trade  of  a  reformer  ? 

Lan.    You  have  indeed  ;  nor  do  I  wonder,  Pepe. 
Fool  as  you  are,  I  promise  you  success 
In  your  new  calling,  if  you'll  set  it  up. 
The  thing  is  far  too  simple.          [Trumpet  sounds  within.'} 

Pepe.  Hist !  my  lord. 

Lan.   That  calls  me  to  myself. 

Pepe.  At  that  alarm, 

All  Rimini  leaped  up  upon  its  feet. 
Cousin,  your  bridal-train.    You  groan  !   'Ods  wounds ! 
Here  is  the  bridegroom  sorely  malcontent  — 
The  sole  sad  face  in  Rimini.     Since  morn, 
A  quiet  man  could  hardly  walk  the  streets, 
For  flowers  and  streamers.     All  the  town  is  gay. 
Perhaps  't  is  merry  o'er  your  misery. 

Lan.    Perhaps  ;  but  that  it  knows  not. 

Pepe.  Yes,  it  does  : 

It  knows  that  when  a  man  ?s  about  to  wed, 


408  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

He  's  ripe  to  laugh  at.     Cousin,  tell  me,  now, 
Why  is  Paolo  on  the  way  so  long  ? 
Ravenna 's  but  eight  leagues  from  Rimini  — 

Lan.   That's  just  the  measure  of  your  tongue, 

good  fool. 

You  trouble  me.     I  've  had  enough  of  you  — 
Begone  ! 

Pepe.    I  'm  going  ;  but  you  see  I  limp. 
Have  pity  on  a  cripple,  gentle  Count.  [Limps.] 

Lan.    Pcpe  ! 

Pepe.  A  miracle,  a  miracle  ! 

See,  see,  my  lord,  at  Pepe's  saintly  name 
The  lame  jog  on. 

Malatesta.    ( Without.)     Come,  Lanciotto  ! 

Lan.  Hark ! 

My  father  calls. 

Pepe.  If  he  were  mine,  I  'd  go  — 

That 's  a  good  boy  !  [Pats  LANCIOTTO'S  back.] 

Lan.    (starting.)     Hands  off!  you  '11  rue  it  else  ! 

[Exit.] 

Pepe.    (Laughing.)    Ha!  ha!    I  laid  rny  hand  upon 

his  hump  ! 

Heavens,  how  he  squirmed !    And  what  a  wish  I  had 
To  cry,  Ho  !  camel !  leap  upon  his  back, 
And  ride  him  to  the  devil  !    So,  we  've  had 
A  pleasant  flitting  round  philosophy  ! 
The  Count  and  Fool  bumped  heads,  and  struck  ideas 
Out  by  the  contact !     Quite  a  pleasant  talk 
A  friendly  conversation,  nothing  more  — 
'Twixt  nobleman  and  jester.     Ho  !  my  bird, 
I  can  toss  lures  as  high  as  any  man. 
So,  I  amuse  you  with  my  harmless  wit  ? 
Pcpe 's  your  friend  now — you  can  trust  in  him  — 


FRANCE3CA    DA    RIMINI.  409 

An  honest,  simple  fool !     Just  try  it  once, 

You  ugly,  misbegotten  clod  of  dirt  ! 

Ay,  but  the  hump  —  the  touch  upon  the  hump  — 

The  start  and  wriggle  — tfiat  was  rare  !     Ha  !  ha  ! 

[Exit,  laughing.'] 


SCENE    II. 

The  Same.  The  Grand  Square  before  the  Castle.  Soldiers  on 
guard,  with  banners,  fyc.  Citizens,  in  holiday  dresses,  cross  the 
scene.  The  houses  are  hung  with  trophies,  banners,  garlands, 
Sf-c.  Enter  MALATESTA,  with  guards,  attendants,  $c. 

Malatesta.    Captain,  take   care  the   streets  be  not 

choked  up 

By  the  rude  rabble.     Send  to  Caesar's  bridge 
A  strong  detachment  of  your  men,  and  clear 
The  way  before  them.     See  that  nothing  check 
The  bride's  first  entrance  into  Rimini. 
Station  your  veterans  in  the  front.     Count  Guido 
Comes  with  his  daughter,  and  his  eyes  are  sharp. 
Keep  up  a  show  of  strength  before  him,  sir  ; 
And  set  some  laborers  to  work  upon 
The  broken  bastion.     Make  all  things  look  bright  ; 
As  if  we  stood  in  eager  readiness, 
And  high  condition,  to  begin  a  war. 

Captain.    I  will,  my  lord. 

Mai.  Keep  Guido  in  your  eye  ; 

And  if  you  see  him  looking  over-long 
On  any  weakness  of  our  walls,  just  file 
Your  bulkiest  fellows  round  him  ;  or  get  up 
A  scuffle  with  the  people  ;  anything  — 
Even  if  you  break  a  head  or  two  —  to  draw 


410  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

His  vision  off.     But  where  our  strength  is  great, 
Take  heed  to  make  him  see  it.     You  conceive  ? 
Capt.    Trust  me,  my  lord.  [Exit  with  guards.} 

(Enter  PEPE.) 

Pepe.  Room,  room  !  A  hall,  a  hall ! 

I  pray  you,  good  man,  has  the  funeral  passed  ? 

Mai.    Who  is  it  asks  ? 

Pepe.  Pepe  of  Padua, 

A  learned  doctor  of  uncivil  law. 

Mai.    But  how  a  funeral  ? 

Pepe.  You  are  weak  of  wit. 

Francesca  of  Ravenna 's  borne  to  church, 
And  never  issues  thence. 

Mai.  How,  doctor,  pray  ? 

Pepe.    Now,  for  a  citizen  of  Rimini, 
You  're  sadly  dull.     Does  she  not  issue  thence 
Fanny  of  Rimini  ?     A  glorious  change, — 
A  kind  of  resurrection  in  the  flesh  ! 

Mai.    (Laughing.)    Ha!  ha!  thou  cunning  villain! 

1  was  caught. 
I  own  it,  doctor. 

Pepe.    (Aside.}     This  old  fool  would  laugh 
To  see  me  break  a  straw,  because  the  bits 
Were  of  unequal  lengths.     My  character 
Carries  more  dulness,  in  the  guise  of  wit, 
Than  would  suffice  to  break  an  ass's  back. 

(Distant  shouts,  music,  #c.) 

Hark  !  here  comes  Jeptha's  daughter,  jogging  on 
With  timbrels  and  with  dances. 

Mai.  Jeptha's  daughter  ! 

How  so  ? 


FRAXCE3CA    DA    RIMINI.  411 

P<pe.     Her  father's  sacrifice. 

MaL     (Laughing.)  Ho  !    ho  ! 

You  '11  burst  my  belt !   0  !  you  outrageous  wretch, 
To  jest  at  Scripture  ! 

Pepe.  You  outlandish  heathen, 

;T  is  not  in  Scripture  ! 

Mai.  Is  it  not  ? 

Pepe.  No  more 

Than  you  are  in  heaven.     Mere  Hebrew  history. 
She  went  up  to  the  mountains,  to  bewail 
The  too-long  keeping  of  her  honesty. 
There 's  woman  for  you  !  there  's  a  character ! 
What  man  would  ever  think  of  such  a  thing  ? 
Ah  !  we  of  Rirnini  have  little  cause 
For  such  a  sorrow.     Would  she  'd  been  my  wife  ! 
I  '11  marry  any  woman  in  her  case. 

MaL    Why,  Pepe? 

Pepe.  Why  ?  because,  in  two  months7  time. 

Along  comes  father  Jeptha  with  his  knife, 
And  there  's  an  end.     Where  is  your  sacrifice  ? 
Where  's  Isaac,  Abraham  ?     Build  your  altar  up  : 
One  pile  will  do  for  both. 

Mai.  That's  Scripture,  sure. 

Pepe.    Then  I  'm  a  ram,  and  you  may  slaughter  me 
In  Isaac's  stead. 

Mai.  Here  comes  the  vanguard.    Where, 

Where  is  that  laggard  ? 

Pepe.  At  the  mirror,  uncle, 

Making1  himself  look  beautiful.     He  comes, 

[Looking  out.] 

Fresh  as  a  bridegroom  !     Mark  his  doublet's  fit 
Across  the  shoulders,  and  his  hose  !  — 
By  Jove,  he  nearly  looks  like  any  other  man  ! 


412  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Mai.    You  M  best  not  let  him  hear  you.     Sirrah, 

knave, 
I  have  a  mind  to  swinge  you  !  [Seizes  his  car.'] 

Pepe.  Loose  my  ear  ! 

You  Vc   got  the   wrong  sow,  swineherd  I     You  're 

unjust. 

Being  his  father,  I  was  fool  sufficient 
To  think  you  fashioned  him  to  suit  yourself, 
By  way  of  a  variety.     The  thought 
Was  good  enough,  the  practice  damnable. 

MaL    Hush  !  or  I  '11  clap  you  in  the  pillory. 

(Enter  LAXCIOTTO.) 

Pcpe.    (Sinys.)    IIo,  ho,  ho,  ho!  —  old  Time  has 

wings  — 

We're  born,  we  mourn,  we  wed,  we  bed, 
We  have  a  devilish  aching  head  ; 
So  down  we  lie, 
And  die,  and  fry ; 
And  there  's  a  merry  end  of  things  ! 

(Music,  Sfc.t  within.) 

Here  come  Ravenna's  eagles  for  a  roost 

In  Rimini !     The  air  is  black  with  them. 

When  go  they  hence  ?     Wherever  yon  bird  builds, 

The  nest  remains  for  ages.     Have  an  eye, 

Or  Malatesta's  elephant  may  feel 

The  cable's  talons. 

Lanciotlo.  You  're  a  raven,  croaker. 

Pcpe.    And  you  no  white  crow,  to  insure  us  luck. 

Mai.    There  's  matter  in  his  croak. 

Pepe.  There  always  is  ; 

But  men  lack  cars. 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  413 

Mai.  Then  eyes  must  do  our  work. 

Old  Guido  shall  be  looked  to.     If  his  force 
Appear  too  great,  I  '11  camp  him  out  of  town. 

Lan.    Father,  you  are  a  sorry  host. 

Mai  Well,  well, 

I  'm  a  good  landlord,  though.     I  do  not  like 
This  flight  of  eagles  more  than  Pepe.     'Sdeath  ! 
Guido  was  ever  treacherous. 

Lan.  My  lord, 

You  mar  my  holiday  by  such  a  thought. 
My  holiday  !    Dear  saints  !  it  seems  to  me 
That  all  of  you  are  mocking  me. 

Pepe.  So  —  so  — 

Guido  was  ever  treacherous  ?  —  so  —  so  ! 

Mai.    So  —  so  !     How  so  ? 

Pepe.  What  if  this  treachery 

Run  in  the  blood  ?     We  '11  tap  a  vein  then  —  so  ! 

Mai.    Sew  up  your  mouth,  and  mind  your  fooling, 
fool! 

Pepe.    Am  I  not  fooling  ?    Why,  my  lord,  I  thought 
The  fooling  exquisite. 

Lan.    (Aside.)  This  thoughtless  knave 

Hits  near  us  sometimes  with  his  random  shafts. 
Marriage  for  me  !     I  cannot  comprehend, 
I  cannot  take  it  to  my  heart ;  the  thing 
Seems  gross,  absurd,  ridiculous.     Ah  !  well, 
My  father  bears  the  folly  of  it  all  ; 
I  'in  but  an  actor  in  his  comedy. 
My  part  is  bad,  but  I  must  through  with  it. 

[Retires.] 
(Shouts,  music,  fyc.,  within.) 

Pepe.    Look !    here  's  the  whole  parade  !      Mark, 
yonder  knave  — 


414  FRANCE3CA    DA    RIMINI. 

The  head  one  with  the  standard.     Nature,  nature  ! 
Iladst  them  a  hand  in  such  a  botch-work  ?     Why, 
A  forest  of  his  legs  would  scarcely  make 
A  bunch  of  fugots.     Mark  old  Guido,  too  ! 
lie  looks  like  Judas  with  his  silver.     Ho  ! 
Here  's  news  from  sweet  Ravenna ! 

Mai    (Lauyhiny.)  Ha!  ha!  ha' 

Pepe.    Ah  !  now  the  bride !  —  that 's  something  — 

she  is  toothsome. 

Look  you,  my  lord  —  now,  while  the  progress  halts  — 
Cousin  Paolo,  has  he  got  the  dumps  ? 
Mercy !  to  see  him,  one  might  almost  think 
'T  was  his  own  marriage.     What  a  doleful  face  ! 
The  boy  is  ill.     Jle  caught  a  fever,  uncle, 
Travelling  across  the  marshes.     Physic  !  physic  ! 
If  he  be  really  dying,  get  a  doctor, 
And  cut  the  matter  short.     T  were  merciful. 

Mai.    For  heaven's    sake,  cease  your  clamor!    I 

shall  have 

No  face  to  meet  them  else.     'T  is  strange,  for  all : 
.What  ails  Paolo? 

Pepe.  Dying,  by  this  hand! 

Mai.    Then  I  will  hang  you. 

Pepe.  Don't  take  up  my  craft. 

Wit 's  such  a  stranger  in  your  brain  that  I 
Scarce  knew  my  lodger  venturing  from  your  mouth. 
Now  they  come  on  again. 

Mai.  Stand  back  ! 

Pepe.    (Looking  round.}  The  bridegroom  ? 

lie  flics  betimes,  before  the  bride  shows  fight. 

[  Walks  back,  looking  for  LAXCIOTTO.] 

(Made,  shouts,  ringing  of  bells,  SfC.     Enter  Men-at-arms,  vilh 
banners,   fyc.,  GUIDO>    Cardinal,   Knights,  JHtcn,lant*,   $<•.; 


FRASCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  415 

then  PAOLO,  conducting  FRANCESCA,/oZZowetf  by  RITTA,  Ladies, 
Pact's,  4'c-»  and  other  Men-at-arms.  They  file  around  the 
stage,  and  halt.) 

Mai.  Welcome,  to  Rimini,  Count  Guido  !  Welcome, 
And  fair  impressions  of  our  poor  abode, 
To  you,  my  daughter !     You  are  well  returned, 
My  son,  Paolo  !     Let  me  bless  you,  son. 

[PAOLO  approaches.'] 
How  many  spears  are  in  old  Guido's  train  ? 

[Apart  to  PAOLO.] 

Paolo.    Some  ten-score. 

Mai.  Footmen  ? 

Paolo.  .        Double  that. 

Mai.  'T  is  well. 

Again  I  bid  you  welcome  !     Make  no  show 
Of  useless  ceremony  with  us.     Friends 
Have  closer  titles  than  the  empty  name. 
We  have  provided  entertainment,  Count, 
For  all  your  followers,  in  the  midst  of  us. 
We  trust  the  veterans  of  Rimini 
May  prove  your  soldiers  that  our  courtesy 
Does  riot  lag  far  behind  their  warlike  zeal. 
Let  us  drop  Guelf  and  Ghibelin  henceforth, 
Coupling  the  names  of  Rimini  and  Ravenna 
As  bridegroom's  to  his  bride's. 

Guido.  Count  Malatesta, 

I  am  no  rhetorician,  or  my  words 
Might  keep  more  even  with  the  love  I  feel  : 
Simply,  I  thank  you.     With  an  honest  hand 
I  take  the  hand  which  you  extend  to  me, 
And  hope  our  grasp  may  never  lose  its  warmth. — 
You  marked  the  bastion  by  the  water-side  ? 
Weak  as  a  bulrush.  [Jipxrt  to  a 


416  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Kniylit.  Tottering  weak,  my  lord. 

GUI.    Remember  it ;  and  when  you  're  private,  sir, 
Draw  me  a  plan. 

Knight.  I  will,  my  lord. 

GUI.  How  's  this  ? 

I  do  not  see  my  future  son-in-law. 

Mai.    Lanciotto ! 

Lan.    (Advancing.)     I  am  here,  my  lord. 

Francesca.    (Starting.)  0!  heaven! 

Is  that  my  husband,  Count  Paolo  ?     You, 
You  then,  among  the  rest,  have  played  me  false  ! 
He  is  —  [Apart  to  PAOLO.] 

Paulo.  My  brother. 

Lan.    (Aside.)  Ha  !  she  turns  from  me. 

Pepe.    (Approaching  LAXCIOTTO,  sings.) 

Around,  around  the  lady  turned, 

She  turned  not  to  her  lord  ; 
She  turned  around  to  a  gallant,  gallant  knight, 

Who  ate  at  his  father's  board. 

A  pretty  ballad !  all  on  one  string  though. 
Lan.    Pope,  go  hence  !     (PEPE  retires.) 

(Aside.)     I  saw  her  start  and  pale, 
Turn  off  with  horror  ;  as  if  she  had  seen  — 
What  ?  —  simply  me.     For,  am  I  not  enough, 
And  something  over,  to  make  ladies  quail, 
Start,  hide  their  faces,  whisper  to  their  friends, 
Point  at  me  —  dare  she?  —  and  perform  such  tricks 
As  women  will  when  monsters  l.last  their  sight? 
()  !  saints  above  me,  have  I  come  so  low  ? 
Yon  damsel  of  Ravenna  shall  bewail 
That  start  and  shudder.     I  am  mad,  mad,  mad  ! 
1  must  be  patient.     They  have  trilled  with  her  : 


FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  41 1 

Lied  to  her,  lied  !     There  's  half  the  misery 

Of  this  broad  earth,  all  crowded  in  one  word. 

Lied,  lied  !  —  Who  has  not  suffered  from  a  lie  ? 

They  're  all  aghast  —  all  looking  at  me  too. 

Francesca  's  whiter  than  the  brow  of  fear  : 

Paolo  talks.  —  Brother,  is  that  well  meant? 

What  if  I  draw  my  sword,  and  fight  my  way 

Out  of  this  cursed  town  ?     ;T  would  be  relief. 

Has  shame  no  hiding-place  ?    I  've  touched  the  depth 

Of  human  infamy,  and  there  I  rest. 

By  heaven,  I  '11  brave  this  business  out !    Shall  they 

Say  at  Ravenna  that  Count  Lanciotto, 

Who  's   driven  their   shivering   squadrons   to    their 

homes, 

Haggard  with  terror,  turned  before  their  eyes 
And  slunk  away  ?     They  '11  look  me  from  the  field, 
When  we  encounter  next.     Why  should  not  I 
Strut  with  my  shapeless  body,  as  old  Guido 
Struts  with  his  shapeless  heart  ?     I  '11  do  it !     (Offers, 

but  shrinks  back. )      '  S  death  ! 
Am  I  so  false  as  to  forswear  myself? 
Lady  Francesca  !  [Approaches  FRANCESCA.] 

Fran.  Sir  —  my  lord  — 

Lan.  Dear  lady, 

I  have  a  share  in  your  embarrassment, 
And  know  the  feelings  that  possess  you  now. 

Fran.    0  !  you  do  not. 

Paolo.    (Advancing.)     My  lady  — 

Lan.  Gentle  brother, 

Leave  this  to  me.      [PAOLO  retires.] 

Fran.  Pray  do  not  send  him  off. 

Lan.    "I  is  fitter  so. 

Fran.  He  comforts  me. 

VOL.  i.  27 


418  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Lan.  Indeed  ? 

Do  you  need  comfort  ? 

Fran.  No,  no  —  pardon  me  I 

But  then  —  he  is  —  you  are  — 

Lan.  Take  breath,  and  speak. 

Fran.    I  am  confused,  'tis  true.     But,  then,  my 

lord, 

You  are  a  stranger  to  me  ;  and  Paolo 
I  've  known  so  long ! 

Lan.  Since  yesterday. 

Fran.  Ah!  well: 

But  the  relationship  between  us  two 
Is  of  so  close  a  nature,  while  the  knowledge, 
That  each  may  have  of  each,  so  slender  is 
That  the  two  jar.     Besides,  Paolo  is 
Nothing  to  me,  while  you  are  everything. 
Can  I  not  act  ?     [Aside.] 

Lan.  I  scarcely  understand. 

You  say  your  knowledge  of  me,  till  to-day, 
Was  incomplete.     lias  naught  been  said  of  me 
By  Count  Paolo  or  your  father  ? 

Fran.  Yes ; 

But  nothing  definite. 

Lan.  Perchance,  no  hint 

As  to  my  ways,  my  feelings,  manners,  or  — 
Or  —  or  —  as  I  was  saying  —  ha  !  ha  !  —  or  — 

[Ltiuyhi/if/  ] 

As  to  my  person  ? 

Fran.  Nothing,  as  to  that. 

Lan.    To  what  ? 

Fran.         Your  —  person. 

Lan.  That 's  the  least  of  all.     [Turns  aside."} 

Now,  had  I  Guido  of  Ravenna's  lu-ud 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  419 

Under  this  heel,  I  'd  grind  it  into  dust ! 
False  villain,  to  betray  his  simple  child ! 
And  thou,  Paolo  —  not  a  whit  behind  — 
Helping  his  craft  with  inconsiderate  love  !  — 
Lady  Francesca,  when  my  brother  left, 
1  charged  him,  as  he  loved  me,  to  conceal 
Nothing  from  you  that  bore  on  me  :  and  now 
That  you  have  seen  me,  and  conversed  with  me, 
If  you  object  to  anything  in  me,  — 
Go,  I  release  you. 

Fran.  But  Ravenna's  peace  ? 

Lan.    Shall  not  be  perilled. 

Gui.    (Coming  behind,  whispers  her.)       Trust   him   not, 

my  child ; 

I  know  his  ways  ;  he  'd  rather  fight  than  wed. 
;T  is  but  a  wish  to  have  the  war  afoot. 
Stand  firm  for  poor  Ravenna  ! 

Lan.  Well,  my  lady, 

Shall  we  conclude  a  lasting  peace  between  us 
By  truce  or  marriage  rites  ? 

Gui.    (  Whispers  her.)  The  devil  tempts  thee  : 

Think  of  Ravenna,  think  of  me  ! 

Lan.  My  lord, 

I  see  my  father  waits  you.  [Guioo  retires.'} 

Fran.  Gentle  sir, 

You  do  me  little  honor  in  the  choice. 

Lan.    My  aim  is  justice. 

Fran.  Would  you  cast  me  off? 

Lan.    Not  for  the  world,  if  honestly  obtained  ; 
Not  for  the  world  would  I  obtain  you  falsely. 

Fran.    The  rites  were  half  concluded  ere  we  met. 

Lan.    Meeting,  would  you  withdraw  ? 

Fran.  No.     Bitter  word !     [Aside.] 


4:20       •  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Lan.    No  !     Arc  you  dealing  fairly  ? 

Fran.  I  have  said. 

Lan.    0  !  rapture,  rapture  !     Can  it  be  that  I  — 
Now  I  "II  speak  plainly  ;  for  a  choice  like  thine 
Implies  such  love  as  woman  never  felt. 
Love  me  !     Then  monsters  beget  miracles, 
And  Heaven  provides  where  human  means  fall  short. 
Lady,  I  '11  worship  thee  !    I  '11  line  thy  path 
\Vitli  suppliant  kings  !     Thy  waiting-maids  shall  be 
Un ransomed  princesses  !     Mankind  shall  bow 
One  neck  to  thee,  as  Persia's  multitudes 
IJi.'fore  the  rising  sun !     From  this  small  town, 
This  centre  of  my  conquests,  I  will  spread 
An  empire  touching  the  extremes  of  earth  ! 
1  '11  raise  once  more  the  name  of  ancient  Rome  ; 
And  what  she  swayed  she  shall  reclaim  again! 
If  I  grow  mad  because  you  smile  on  me, 
Think  of  the  glory  of  thy  love  ;  and  know 
How  hard  it  is,  for  such   a  one  as  I, 

tze  unshaken  on  divinity! 
There  \s  no  such  love  as  mine  alive  in  man. 
From  every  corner  of  the  frowning  earth, 
It  has  been  crowded  back  into  my  heart. 
.Now.  take  it  all !     If  that  be  not  enough, 
A>k.  and  thy  wish  shall  be  omnipotent! 
Your  hand.      (Takes  her  hand.)      It  wav<-rs. 

/•'ran.  So  does  not  my  heart. 

.    Brave!    Thou    art   every    way    a    ><>hliri-'s 
wife  ; 

Thou  shouldst  have  been  a  Caesar's!     Father,  hark  ! 
1  blamrd  your  judgment,  only  to  perceive 
The  weakness  of  my  own. 

J/;//.  \V!i  it  mean    -.I!  t 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  421 

Lan.    It  means  that  this  fair  lady  —  though  I  gave 
Release  to  her,  and  to  Ravenna  —  placed 
The  liberal  hand,  which  I  restored  to  her, 
Back  in  my  own,  of  her  own  free  good-will. 
Is  it  not  wonderful  ? 

Hal.  How  so  ? 

Lan.  How  so  ! 

Paolo.    Alas  !  'tis  as  I  feared  !  [Aside.] 

Mai.  You  're  humble  ?  —  How  ? 

Lan.    Now  shall  I  cry  aloud  to  all  the  world, 
Make  my  deformity  my  pride,  and  say, 
Because  she  loves  me,  I  may  boast  of  it  ?        [Aside.] 
No  matter,  father,  I  arn  happy ;  you, 
As  the  blessed  cause,  shall  share  my  happiness. 
Let  us  be  moving.     Revels,  dashed  with  wine, 
Shall  multiply  the  joys  of  this  sweet  day ! 
There  's  not  a  blessing  in  the  cup  of  life 
I  have  not  tasted  of  within  an  hour  ! 

Fran.    (Aside.)    Thus  I  begin  the  practice  of  deceit, 
Taught  by  deceivers,  at  a  fearful  cost. 
The  bankrupt  gambler  has  become  the  cheat, 
And  lives  by  arts  that  ere  while  ruined  me. 
Where  it  will  end,  Heaven  knows  ;  but  I  — 
I  have  betrayed  the  noblest  heart  of  all ! 

Lan.    Draw  down  thy  dusky  vapors,  sullen  night — • 
Refuse,  yc  stars,  to  shine  upon  the  world  — 
Let  everlasting  blackness  wrap  the  sun, 
And  whisper  terror  to  the  universe  ! 
We  need  ye  not !  we  '11  blind  ye,  if  ye  dare 
Peer  with  lack-lustre  on  our  revelry  ! 
I  have  at  heart  a  passion,  that  would  make 
All  nature  blaze  with  recreated  light !  [Exeunt.i 


422  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  L     The    Same.     An  Apartment  in  the   Castle.     Enter 
LANCIOTTO. 

Lanciotto.    IT  cannot  be  that  I  have  duped  myself, 
That  my  desire  has  played  into  the  hand 
Oi'  my  belief;  yet  such  a  thing  might  be. 
We  palm  more  frauds  upon  our  simple  selves 
Than  knavery  puts  upon  us.     Could  I  trust 
The  open  candor  of  an  angel's  brow, 
I  must  believe  Francesca's.     But  the  tongue 
Should  consummate  the  proof  upon  the  brow, 
And  give  the  truth  its  word.     The  fault  lies  there. 
I  've  tried  her.     Press  her  as  I  may  to  it, 
She  will  not  utter  those  three  little  words  — 
"  I  love  thee."     She  will  say,  "  I  '11  marry  you  ;  — 
I  '11  be  your  duteous  wife  ;  —  I  '11  cheer  your  days  ;  — 
I  '11  do  whate'er  I  can."     But  at  the  point 
Of  present  love,  she  ever  shifts  the  ground, 
Winds  round  the  word,  laughs,  calls  me  "  Infidel !  — 
How  can  I  doubt  ?  "     So,  on  and  on.     But  yet, 
For  all  her  dainty  ways,  she  never  says, 
Frankly,  I  love  thee.     I  am  jealous —  true  ! 
Suspicious  —  true!  distrustful  of  myself:  — 
She  knows  all  that.     Ay,  and  she  likewise  knows, 
A  single  waking  of  her  morning  breath 
Would  blow  these  vapors  off.     1  would  not  take 
The  barren  offer  of  a  heartlrss  hand. 


FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  423 

If  all  the  Indies  cowered  under  it. 

Perhaps  she  loves  another  ?     No  ;  she  said, 

"  I  love  you,  Count,  as  well  as  any  man  ;" 

And  laughed,  as  if  she  thought  that  precious  wit. 

I  turn  her  nonsense  into  argument, 

And  think  I  reason.     Shall  I  give  her  up  ? 

Kail  at  her  hcartlessness,  and  bid  her  go 

Back  to  Ravenna  ?     But  she  clings  to  me, 

At  the  least  hint  of  parting.     Ah  !  'tis  sweet, 

Sweeter  than  slumber  to  the  lids  of  pain, 

To  fancy  that  a  shadow  of  true  love 

May  fall  on  this  God-stricken  mould  of  woe, 

From  so  serene  a  nature.     Beautiful 

Is  the  first  vision  of  a  desert  brook, 

Shining  beneath  its  palmy  garniture, 

To  one  who  travels  on  his  easy  way ; 

What  is  it  to  the  blood-shot,  aching  eye 

Of  some  poor  wight  who  crawls  with  gory  feet, 

In  famished  madness,  to  its  very  brink  ; 

And  throws  his  sun-scorched  limbs  upon  the  cool 

And  humid  margin  of  its  shady  strand, 

To  suck  up  life  at  every  eager  gasp  ? 

Such  seems  Francesca  to  my  thirsting  soul ; 

Shall  I  turn  oft"  and  die  ? 

(Enter  PEPE.) 

Pepe.  Good-morning,  cousin  ! 

Lan.    Good-morning  to  your  foolish  majesty  ! 

Pepe.  The  same  to  your  majestic  foolery  ! 

Lan.    You  compliment ! 

Pepe.  I  am  a  troubadour, 

A  ballad-monger  of  fine  mongrel  ballads, 
And  therefore  running  o'er  with  elegance. 
Wilt  hear  my  verse  ? 


424  FKAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Lan.  With  patience  ? 

Pepe.  No,  with  rapture. 

You  must  go  mad  —  weep,  rend  your  clothes,  and 

roll 

Over  and  over,  like  the  ancient  Greeks, 
When  listening  to  Iliad. 

Lan.  Sing,  then,  sing  ! 

And  if  you  equal  Homer  in  your  song, 
Why,  roll  I  must,  by  sheer  compulsion. 

Pepe.  Nay, 

You  lack  the  temper  of  the  fine-eared  Greek. 
You  will  not  roll  ;  but  that  shall  not  disgrace 
My  gallant  ballad,  fallen  on  evil  times.  [St/i^*.] 

My  father  had  a  blue-black  head, 

My  uncle's  head  was  reddish  —  maybe, 

My  mother's  hair  was  noways  redr 
Sing  high  ho  !  the  pretty  baby  ! 

Mark  the  simplicity  of  that !     'Tis  called 
"The  Babe's  Confession,"  spoken  just  before 
]lis  lather  strangled  him. 

Lan.  Most  marvellous  ! 

You  struggle  with  a  legend  worth  your  art. 

Pepe.    Now  to  the  second  stanza.     Note  the  hint 
I  drop  about  the  baby's  parentage : 
So  delicately  too  !     A  maid  might  sing, 
And  never  blush  at  it.     Girls  love  these  songs 
Of  sugared  wickedness.     They  '11  go  miles  about, 
To  say  a  foul  thing  in  a  dcanly  way. 
A  decent  immorality,  my  lord, 
Is  art's  specific.     Get  the  passions  up, 
But  never  wring  the  stomach. 

Lan.  Triumphant  art ! 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  425 

Pepe.    (Sings.) 

My  father  combed  his  blue-black  head, 

.My  uncle  combed  his  red  head  —  maybe, 
My  mother  combed  my  head,  and  said, 
Sing  high  ho  !  my  red-haired  baby  ! 

Lan.    Fie,  fie  !  go  comb  your  hair  in  private. 
Pepe.  What ! 

Will  you  not  hear?  Now  comes  the  tragedy.   [Sings.] 

My  father  tore  my  red,  red  head, 
My  uncle  tore  my  father's  —  maybe, 

My  mother  tore  both  till  they  bled  — 
Sing  high  ho  !  your  brother's  baby  ! 

Lan.    Why,  what  a  hair-rending  ! 

Pepe.  Thence  wigs  arose  ; 

A  striking  epoch  in  man's  history. 
But  did  you  notice  the  concluding  line, 
Sung  by  the  victim's  mother  ?     There  's  a  hit ! 

"  Sing  high  ho  !  your  brother's  baby  ! " 

Which  brother's,  pray  you  ?     That 's  the  mystery, 

The  adumbration  of  poeiic  art, 

And  there  I  leave  it  to  perplex  mankind. 

It  has  a  moral,  fathers  should  regard,  — 

A  black-haired  dog  breeds  not  a  red-haired  cur. 

Treasure  this  knowledge  :  you  're  about  to  wive  ; 

And  no  one  knows  what  accident  — 

Lan.  Peace,  fool ! 

So  all  this  cunning  thing  was  wound  about, 
To  cast  a  jibe  at  my  deformity  ?     [Tears  O^PEPE'S  cap.] 
There  lies  your  cap,  the  emblem  that  protects 
Your  head  from  chastisement.     Now,  Pepe,  hark  1 


-Il2lj  FRAXCE3CA    DA     RIMINI. 

Of  late  you  Ve  taken  to  reviling  me  ; 
Under  your  motley,  you  have  dared  to  jest 
At  God's  inflictions.     Let  me  tell  you,  fool, 
No  man  e'er  lived,  to  make  a  second  jest 
At  me,  before  your  time  ! 

Pepe.  Boo  !  bloody-bones  ! 

If  you  're  a  coward  —  which  I  hardly  think  — 
You  Ml  have  me  flogged,  or  put  into  a  cell, 
Or  fed  to  wolves.     If  you  are  bold  of  heart, 
You  Ml  let  me  run.     Do  not ;  1  Ml  work  you  harm  ! 
I,  Beppo  Pepe,  standing  as  a  man, 
Without  my  motley,  tell  you,  in  plain  terms, 
I  Ml  work  you  harm  —  I  Ml  do  you  mischief,  man  ! 

Lan.    I,  Lanciotto,  Count  of  Rimini, 
Will  hang  you,  then.     Put  on  your  jingling  cap  ; 
You  please  my  father.     But  remember,  fool, 
X«»  jests  at  me  1 

/'<'pe.  I  will  try  earnest  next. 

Lan.    And  I  the  gallows. 

Pepe.  Well,  cry  quits,  cry  quits  ! 

I  Ml  stretch  your  heart,  and  you  my  neck  —  quits, 
quits  ! 

Lan.     Go,    fool !      Your   weakness    bounds   your 
malice. 

Pepe.  Yes : 

So  you  all  think,  you  savage  gentlemen, 
Until  you  feel  my  sting.     Hang,  hang  away  ! 
It  is  an  airy,  wholesome  sort  <>f  death. 
Much  to  my  liking.      \Yhrn  1  hang,  my  friend, 
You  Ml  be  chief  mourner,  I  can  promise  you. 
Hang  me  !  I  've  quite  a  notion  to  be  hung : 
1  Ml  do  my  utmost  to  deserve  it.  —  Hang  !        [/Jx//.] 

Lan.    I  am  bcrnockcd  on  all  sides.     .My  sad  Mate 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  421 

Has  given  the  licensed  and  unlicensed  fool 
Charter  to  challenge  me  at  every  turn. 
The  jester's  laughing  bauble  blunts  my  sword, 
His  gibes  cut  deeper  than  its  fearful  edge  ; 
And  I,  a  man,  a  soldier,  arid  a  prince, 
Before  this  motley  patchwork  of  a  man, 
Stand  all  appalled,  as  if  he  were  a  glass 
Wherein  I  saw  my  own  deformity. 

0  Heaven  !  a  tear  —  one  little  tear  —  to  wash 
This  aching  dry  ness  of  the  heart  away  ! 

(Enter  PAOLO.) 

Paolo.    What  ails  the  fool  ?     lie  passed  me,  mut 
tering 

The  strangest  garbage  in  the  fiercest  tone. 
"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  cried  he,   "  they  made  a  fool  of  me  — 
A  motley  man,  a  slave  ;  as  if  I  felt 
No  stir  in  me  of  manly  dignity  ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  a  fool  —  a  painted  plaything,  toy  — 
For  men  to  kick  about  this  dirty  world  !  — 
My  world  as  well  as  theirs.  —  God's  world,  I  trow  ! 

1  will  get  even  with  them  yet  —  ha  1  ha  I 
In  the  democracy  of  death  we  '11  square. 

I  '11  crawl  and  lie  beside  a  king's  own  son  ; 

Kiss  a  young  princess,  dead  lip  to  dead  lip  ; 

Pull  the  Pope's  nose  ;  and  kick  down  Charlemagne, 

Throne,  crown,  and  all,  where  the  old  idiot  sprawls, 

Safe  as  he  thinks,  rotting  in  royal  state  !  " 

And  then  he  laughed  and  gibbered,  as  if  drunk 

With  some  infernal  ec.stasy. 

Lan.  Poor  fool  ! 

That  is  the  groundwork  of  his  malice,  then,  — 
His  conscious  difference  from  the  rest  of  men  ? 


4-8  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

I,  of  all  men,  should  pity  him  the  most. 
Poor  Pepe  !     I  '11  be  kinder.     I  have  wronged 
A  feeling  heart.     Poor  Pepe  ! 

Paolo.  Sad  again  ! 

Where  has  the  rapture  gone  of  yesterday  ? 

Lan.    Where  are  the  leaves  of  Summer  ?     Where 

the  snows 

Of  last  year's  Winter  ?     Where  the  joys  and  griefs 
That  shut  our  eyes  to  yesternight's  repose, 
And  woke  not  on  the  morrow  ?     Joys  and  griefs, 
Huntsmen  and  hounds,  ye  follow  us  as  game, 
Poor  panting  outcasts  of  your  forest-law  ! 
Each  cheers  the  others,  —  one  with  wild  halloos, 
And  one  with  whines  and  howls.  — -A  dreadful  chase, 
That  only  closes  when  horns  sound  amort! 

Paolo.  Thus  ever  up  and  down  !    Arouse  yourself, 
Balance  your  mind  more  evenly,  and  hunt 
For  honey  in  the  wormwood. 

Lan.  Or  find  gall 

IIi<l  in  the  hanging  chalice  of  the  rose  : 
Which  think  you  better  ?     If  my  mood  offend, 
We  '11  turn  to  business,  —  to  the  empty  cares 
That  make  such  pother  in  our  feverish  life. 
When  at  Ravenna,  did  you  ever  hear 
Of  any  romance  in  Francesca's  life  ? 
A  love-tilt,  gallantry,  or  anything 
That  might  have  touched  her  heart? 

Paolo.  Not  lightly  even. 

I  think  her  heart  as  virgin  as  her  hand. 

Lan.    Then  there  is  hope. 

Paolo.  Of  what? 

Of  wi.ining  her. 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  429 

Paolo.    Grammercy  !     Lanciotto,  are  you  sane  ? 
You  boasted  yesterday  — 

Lan.  And  changed  to-day. 

Is  that  so  strange  ?     I  always  rnend  the  fault 
Of  yesterday  with  wisdom  of  to-day. 
She  does  not  love  me. 

Paolo.  Pshaw  !  she  marries  you  : 

7T  were  proof  enough  for  me. 

Lan.  Perhaps,  she  loves  you. 

Paolo.    Me,  Lanciotto,  me  !     For  mercy's  sake, 
Blot  out  such  thoughts  —  they  madden  me  !     What, 

love  — 
She  love  —  yet  marry  you  ! 

Lan.  It  moves  you  much. 

'T  was  but  a  fleeting  fancy,  nothing  more. 

Paolo.   You  have  such  wild  conjectures  ! 

Lan.  Well,  to  nie 

They  seem  quite  tame  ;  they  are  my  bed-fellows. 
Think,  to  a  modest  woman,  what  must  be 
The  loathsome  kisses  of  an  unloved  man  — 
A  gross,  coarse  ruffian  1 

Paolo.  0  !  good  heavens,  forbear  I 

Lan.    What  shocks  you  so  ? 

Paolo.  The  picture  which  you  draw, 

Wronging  yourself  by  horrid  images. 

Lan.    Until  she  love  me,  till  I  know,  beyond 
The  cavil  of  a  doubt,  that  she  is  mine  — 
Wholly,  past  question  —  do  you  think  that  I 
Could  so  afflict  the  woman  whom  I  love  ? 

Paolo.    You  love  her,  Lanciotto  ! 

Lan.  Next  to  you, 

Dearer  than  anything  in  nature's  scope. 


430  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Paolo.    (Aside.)    0  !  Heaven,  that  I  must  bear  this  ! 

Yes,  and  more,  — 

More  torture  than  I  dare  to  think  upon, 
Spreads  out  before  me  with  the  coming-  years, 
And  holds  a  record  blotted  with  my  tears, 
As  that  which  I  must  suffer  ! 

Lan.  Come,  Paolo, 

Come  help  me  woo.     I  need  your  guiding  eye, 
To  signal  me,  if  I  should  sail  astray. 

Paolo.    0  !  torture,  torture  !  [jJsWe.] 

Lan.  You  and  I,  perchance, 

Joining  our  forces,  may  prevail  at  last. 
They  call  love  like  a  battle.     As  for  me, 
I  'm  not  a  soldier  equal  to  such  wars, 
Despite  my  arduous  schooling.     Tutor  me 
In  the  best  arts  of  amorous  strategy. 
I  am  quite  raw,  Paolo.     Glances,  sighs, 
Sweets  of  the  lip,  and  arrows  of  the  eye, 
Shrugs,  cringes,  compliments,  are  new  to  me ; 
And  I  shall  handle  them  with  little  art. 
Will  you  instruct  me  ? 

Paolo.  Conquer  for  yourself. 

Two  captains  share  one  honor :  keep  it  all. 
What  if  I  ask  to  share  the  spoils  ? 

Lan.     (Laughing.)  Ha  !   ha  ! 

I  '11  trust  you,  brother.     Let  us  go  to  her  : 
Francesca  is  neglected  while  we  jest. 
I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  your  fair  face, 
And  noble  figure,  always  cheer  me  up, 
More  than  your  words  ;  there  's  healing  in  them,  too, 
For  my  worst  griefs.     Dear  brother,  let  us  in. 

[Exeunt.] 


FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  431 


SCENE  II. 

The  Same.     A  Chamber  in  the   Same.     FRANCESCA  and  RITTA 
discovered  at  the  bridal  toilet. 

Eilta.    (Sings.) 

Ring  high,  ring  high  !  to  earth  and  sky  ; 

A  lady  goes  a-wedding  ; 
The  people  shout,  the  show  draws  out, 

And  smiles  the  bride  is  shedding. 

No  bell  for  you,  ye  ragged  few ; 

A  beggar  goes  a-wedding  ; 
The  people  sneer,  the  thing 's  so  queer, 

And  tears  the  bride  is  shedding. 

Ring  low,  ring  low  !  dull  bell  of  woe, 

One  tone  will  do  for  either  ; 
The  lady  glad,  and  beggar  sad, 

Have  both  lain  down  together. 

Francesco,.    A  mournful  ballad ! 

Eitta.  I  scarce  knew  I  sang. 

I  'm  weary  of  this  wreath.     These  orange-flowers 
Will  never  be  adjusted  to  my  taste : 
Strive  as  I  will,  they  ever  look  awry. 
My  fingers  ache  ! 

Fran.  Not  more  than  my  poor  head. 

There,  leave  them  so. 

Hit.  That 's  better,  yet  not  well. 

Fran.    They  are  but  fading  things,  not  worth  your 
pains : 


•\:}'2  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

They  '11  scarce  outlive  the  marriage  merriment. 
Ritta,  these  flowers  are  hypocrites  ;  they  show 
An  outside  gayety,  yet  die  within, 
Minute  by  minute.     You  shall  see  them  fall, 
Black  with  decay,  before  the  rites  are  o'er. 

Rit.   How  beautiful  you  are  ! 

Fran.  Fie,  flatterer! 

White  silk  and  laces,  pearls  and  orange-flowers, 
Would  do  as  much  for  any  one. 

Rit.  No,  no ! 

You  give  them  grace,  they  nothing  give  to  you. 
Why,  after  all,  you  make  the  wreath  look  well ; 
But  somewhat  dingy,  where  it  lies  against 
Your  pulsing  temple,  sullen  with  disgrace. 
Ah  !  well,  your  Count  should  be  the  proudest  man 
That  ever  led  a  lady  into  church, 
Were  he  a  modern  Alexander.     Poh  ! 
What  are  his  trophies  to  a  face  like  that  ? 

Fran.    I  seem  to  please  you,  Ritta. 

Hit.  Please  yourself, 

And  you  will  please  me  better.     You  are  sad  : 
I  marked  it  ever  since  you  saw  the  Count. 
I  fear  the  splendor  of  his  victories. 
And  his  sweet  grace  of  manner  —  for,  in  faith, 
His  is  the  gentlest,  grandest  character, 
Despite  his  — 

Fran.  Well  ? 

Rit.  Despite  his  — 

Fran.  Ritta,  What  ? 

Rit.    Despite  his  difference  from  Count  Paolo.— 

[FRAXCESCA  stagers.] 
What  is  the  matter  ?  •  "          O'/v "'"'.'/  /«''••] 

Fran.  Nothing:  mere  fatigue. 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI.  433 

TTand  me  my  kerchief.     I  am  better  now. 
What  were  you  saying? 

Hit.  That  I  fear  the  Count 

Has  won  your  love. 

Fran.  Would  that  be  cause  for  fear  ? 

\_Laughing.~\ 

Hit.    0  !  yes,  indeed  !     Once  — long  ago  — I  was 
Just  fool  enough  to  tangle  up  my  heart 
With  one  of  these  same  men.     'T  was  terrible  ! 
Morning  or  evening,  waking  or  asleep, 
I  had  no  peace.     Sighs,  groans,  and  standing  tears, 
Counted  my  moments  through  the  blessed  day. 
And  then  to  this  there  was  a  dull,  strange  ache 
Forever  sleeping  in  my  breast,  —  a  numbing  pain, 
That  would  not  for  an  instant  be  forgot. 
0  !  but  I  loved  him  so,  that  very  feeling 
Became  intolerable.     And  I  believed 
This  false  Giuseppe,  too,  for  all  the  sneers, 
The  shrugs  and  glances,  of  my  intimates. 
They  slandered  me  and  him,  yet  I  believed. 
He  was  a  noble,  and  his  love  to  me 
Was  a  reproach,  a  shame,  yet  I  believed. 
He  wearied  of  me,  tried  to  shake  me  off, 
Grew  cold  and  formal,  yet  I  would  not  doubt. 
0  !  lady,  I  was  true  !     Nor  till  I  saw 
Giuseppe  walk  through  the  cathedral  door 
With  Dora,  the  rich  usurer's  niece,  upon 
The  very  arm  to  which  I  clung  so  oft, 
Did  I  so  much  as  doubt  him.     Even  then  — 
More  is  my  shame —  I  made  excuses  for  him. 
"  Just  this  or  that  had  forced  him  to  the  course  : 
Perhaps,  he  loved  me  yet  —  a  little  yet. 
His  fortune,  or  his  family,  had  driven 

VOL.  i.  28 


434  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

My  poor  Giuseppe  thus  against  his  heart. 
The  low  are  sorry  judges  for  the  great. 
Yes,  yes,  Giuseppe  loved  me  !  "     But  at  last 
I  did  awake.     It  might  have  been  with  less : 
There  was  no  need  of  crushing  me,  to  break 
My  silly  dream  up.     In  the  street,  it  chanced, 
Dora  and  he  went  by  me,  and  he  laughed  — 
A  bold,  bad  laugh  —  right  in  my  poor  pale  face, 
And  turned  and  whispered  Dora,  and  she  laughed. 
Ah  !  then  I  saw  it  all.     I  've  been  awake, 
Ever  since  then,  I  warrant  you.     And  now 
I  only  pray  for  him  sometimes,  when  friends 
Tell  his  base  actions  towards  his  hapless  wife.— 
0  !  I  am  lying  —  I  pray  every  night !  [  Weeps.] 

Fran.    Poor  Ritta  !  [Weeping.] 

Kit.          No  !  blest  Ritta  !    Thank  kind  Heaven, 
That  kept  me  spotless  when  he  tempted  me, 
And  my  weak  heart  was  pleading  with  his  tongue. 
JVav,  do  not  weep.     You  spoil  your  eyes  for  me. 
But  never  love  ;  0  !  it  is  terrible  ! 

Fran.    I  '11  strive  against  it. 

Eit.  Do  :  because,  my  lady, 

Even  a  husband  may  be  false,  you  know ; 
Ay,  even  to  so  sweet  a  wife  as  you. 
Men  have  odd  tastes.    They  '11  surfeit  on  the  charms 
Of  Cleopatra,  and  then  turn  aside 
To  woo  her  blackamoor.     'T  is  so,  in  faith  ; 
Or  Dora's  uncle's  gold  had  ne'er  outbid 
The  boundless  measure  of  a  love  like  mine. 
Think  of  it,  lady,  to  wrigh  love  with  gold ! 
What  could  be  meaner  ? 

Fran.  Nothing,  nothing,  Riita. 

Though  gold  's  the  standard  measure  of  the  world, 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  435 

And  seems  to  lighten  everything  beside. 
Yet  heap  the  other  passions  in  the  scale, 
And   balance    them    'gainst   that   which    gold    out 
weighs  — 

Against  this  love  —  and  you  shall  see  how  light 
The  most  supreme  of  them  are  in  the  poise ! 
I  speak  by  book  and  history  ;  for  love 
Slights  my  high  fortunes.     Under  cloth  of  state 
The  urchin  cowers  from  pompous  etiquette, 
Waiving  his  function  at  the  scowl  of  power, 
And  seeks  the  rustic  cot  to  stretch  his  limbs 
In  homely  freedom.     I  fulfil  a  doom. 
We  who  are  topmost  on  this  heap  of  life 
Are  nearer  to  Heaven's  hand  than  you  below ; 
And  so  are  used,  as  ready  instruments, 
To  work  its  purposes.     Let  envy  hide 
Her  witless  forehead  at  a  prince's  name, 
And  fix  her  hopes  upon  a  clown's  content. 
You,  happy  lowly,  know  not  what  it  is 
To  groan  beneath  the  crowned  yoke  of  state, 
And  bear  the  goadings  of  the  sceptre.     Ah  ! 
Fate  drives  us  onward  in  a  narrow  way, 
Despite  our  boasted  freedom. 

(Enter  PAOLO,  with  Pages  bearing  torches.} 

Gracious  saints ! 
What  brought  you  here  ? 

Paolo.  The  bridegroom  waits. 

Fran.  He  does  ? 

Let  him  wait  on  forever  !     I  '11  not  go  ! 
0  !  dear  Paolo  — 

Paolo.  Sister ! 

Fran.  It  is  well. 


436  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

I  have  been  troubled  with  a  sleepless  night. 

My  brain  is  wild.     I  know  not  what  I  say. 

Pray,  do  not  call  me  sister  :  it  is  cold. 

I  never  had  a  brother,  and  the  name 

Sounds  harshly  to  me.     When  you  speak  to  me, 

Call  me  Francesca. 

Paolo.  You  shall  be  obeyed. 

Fran.    I   would   not  be   obeyed.     I  'd  have  you 

do  it 

Because — because  you  love  me  —  as  a  sister  — 
And  of  your  own  good-will,  not  my  command, 
Would  please  me.  —  Do  you  understand  ? 

Paolo.  Too  well !    [Aside.] 

'Tis  a  nice  difference. 

Fran.  Yet  you  understand  ? 

Say  that  you  do. 

Paolo.  I  do. 

Fran.  That  pleases  me. 

'Tis  flattering  if  our — friends  appreciate 
Our  nicer  feelings. 

Paolo.  1  await  you,  lady. 

Fran.    Ritta,  my  gloves.  —  Ah  !  yes,  I  have  them 

on  ; 

Though  I  'in  not  quite  prepared.     Arrange  my  veil ; 
It  folds  too  closely.     That  will  do  ;  retire. 

[RITTA  retires.] 

So,  Count  Paolo,  you  have  come,  hot  haste, 
To  lead  me  to  the  church, —  to  have  your  share 
In  my  undoing  ?     And  you  came,  in  sooth, 
Because  they  sent  you  ?     You  are  very  tame  ! 
And  if  they  sent,  was  it  for  you  to  come  ? 

Paolo.    Lady,  I  do  not  understand  this  scorn. 
I  came,  as  is  my  duty,  to  escort 


FBANCESCA    DA    RIMTXI.  431 

My  brother's  bride  to  him.    When  next  you  're  called, 
I  '11  send  a  lackey. 

Fran.  I  have  angered  you. 

Paolo.    With  reason  :  I  would  not  appear  to  you 
Low  or  contemptible. 

Fran.  Why  not  to  me  ? 

Paolo.    Lady,  I  '11  not  be  catechized. 

Fran.  Ha  !   Count ! 

Paolo.    No  !  if  you  press  me  further,  I  will  say 
A  word  to  madden  you.  —  Stand  still !     You  stray 
Around  the  margin  of  a  precipice. 
I  know  what  pleasure  ?t  is  to  pluck  the  flowers 
That  hang  above  destruction,  and  to  gaze 
Into  the  dread  abyss,  to  see  such  things 
As  may  be  safely  seen.     7T  is  perilous  : 
The  eye  grows  dizzy  as  we  gaze  below, 
And  a  wild  wish  possesses  us  to  spring 
Into  the  vacant  air.     Beware,  beware  ! 
Lest  this  unholy  fascination  grow 
Too  strong  to  conquer  ! 

Fran.  You  talk  wildly,  Count ; 

There  's  not  a  gleam  of  sense  in  what  you  say  ; 
I  cannot  hit  your  meaning. 

Paolo.  Lady,  come  ! 

Fran.    Count,  you  are  cruel !  [  Weeps.] 

Paolo.  0  !  no  ;  I  would  be  kind. 

But  now,  while  reason  over-rides  my  heart, 
And  seeming  anger  plays  its  braggart  part —  . 
In  heaven's  name,  come  ! 

Fran.  One  word  —  one  question  more  : 

Is  it  your  wish  this  marriage  should  proceed  ? 

Paolo.    It  is. 


433  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMIXI. 

Fran.       Come  on  !     You  shall  not  take  my  hand  : 
I  '11  walk  alone  —  now,  and  forever  ! 

Paolo.     (Taking  her  hand)  Sister! 

[Exeunt  PAOLO  and  FRAXCESCA,  with  Pages.] 

Ritta.    0  !  misery,  misery  !  —  it  is  plain  as  day  — 
She  loves  Paolo  !     Why  will  those  I  love 
Forever  get  themselves  ensnared,  and  heaven 
Forever  call  on  me  to  succor  them  ? 
Here  was  the  mystery,  then  —  the  sighs  and  tears, 
The  troubled  slumbers,  and  the  waking  dreams ! 
And  now  she  's  walking  through  the  chapel-door, 
Her  bridal  robe  above  an  aching  heart, 
Dressed  up  for  sacrifice.     "Pis  terrible  ! 
And  yet  she  '11  smile  and  do  it.     Smile,  for  years, 
Until  her  heart  breaks  ;  and  the  nurses  ask 
The  doctor  of  the  cause.     He  '11  answer  too, 
In  hard  thick  Latin,  and  believe  himself. 

0  !  my  dear  mistress  !     Heaven,  pray  torture  me  ! 
Send  back  Giuseppe,  let  him  ruin  me, 

And  scorn  me  after;  but,  sweet  heaven,  spare  her! 

1  '11  follow  her.     0  !  what  a  world  is  this  !         [Exit.} 


SCENE    HI. 

Tlie  Same.  Interior  of  the  Cathedral.  LANCIOTTO,  FRAXCESCA, 
PAOLO,  MALATKSTA,  Guino,  RITTA,  PEPE,  Lunls,  Knight*, 
Priests,  Pages,  a  bridal-train  of  L<f/ic<,  N  .  C.lizcns, 

Attendants,  4-c.,  discovered  before  the  High  Jlltar.    Organ  music. 
The  rites  being  over,  they  advance. 

Malatesta.    By  heaven  — 

Pe.pe.  0  !  uncle,  undo,  you  're  in  church  ! 

Mai.    I  '11  break  your  head,  knave  1 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  439 

Pepe.  I  claim  sanctuary. 

Mai.    Why,  bridegroom,  will  you  never  kiss  the 

bride  ? 
We  all  are  mad  to  follow  you. 

Pepe.  Yes,  yes  ; 

Elere  was  Paolo  wetting  his  red  lips 
For  the  last  minute.     Kiss,  and  give  him  room. 

Mai.    You  heaven-forsaken  imp,  be  quiet  now  ! 

Pepe.    Then  there  'd  be  naught  worth  hearing. 

Mai.  Bridegroom,  come  ! 

Pepe.    Lord  !    he   don't  like   it !     Hey  !  —  I   told 

you  so  — 

He  backs  at  the  first  step.     Does  he  not  know 
His  trouble  's  just  begun  ? 

Landotto.  Gentle  Francesca, 

Custom  imposes  somewhat  on  thy  lips  : 
I  '11  make  my  levy.  [Kisses  her.     The  others  follow.'] 

(Aside.}     Ha  I  she  shrank  !  I  felt 
Her  body  tremble,  and  her  quivering  lips 
Seemed  dying  under  mine  !     I  heard  a  sigh, 
Such  as  breaks  hearts —  0  !  no,  a  very  groan  ; 
And  then  she  turned  a  sickly,  miserable  look 
On  pale  Paolo,  and  he  shivered  too  ! 
There  is  a  mystery  hangs  around  her, —  ay, 
Paolo  knows  it  too.  —  By  all  the  saints, 
I  '11  make  him  tell  it,  at  the  dagger's  point ! 
Paolo  !  —  here  !     I  do  adjure  you,  brother, 
By  the  great  love  I  bear  you,  to  reveal 
The  secret  of  Francesca' s  grief. 

Paolo.  I  cannot. 

Lan.    She  told  you  nothing  ? 

Paolo.  Nothing. 

Lan.  Not  a  word  ? 


440  FRANCESCA     DA    RIMINI. 

Paolo.    Not  one. 

Lan.  What  heard  you  at  Ravenna,  then  ? 

Paolo.    Nothing 

Lan.  Here  ? 

Paolo.  Nothing. 

Lan.  Not  the  slightest  hint  ?  — 

Don't  stammer,  man  I     Speak  quick  !    I  am  in  haste. 

Paolo.    Never. 

Lan.  What  know  you  ? 

Paolo.  Nothing  that  concerns 

Your  happiness,  Lanciotto.     If  I  did, 
Would  I  not  tell  unquestioned  ? 

Lan.  Would  you  not  ? 

You  ask  a  question  for  me  :  answer  it. 

Paolo.    I  have. 

Lan.  You  juggle,  you  turn  deadly  pale, 

Fumble  your  dagger,  stand  with  head  half  round, 
Tapping  your  feet.  —  You  dare  not  look  at  me  ! 
By  Satan !  Count  Paolo,  let  me  say, 
You  look  much  like  a  full-convicted  thief  ! 

Paolo.    Brother !  - 

Lan.          Pshaw  !  brother  !     You  deceive  me,  sir : 
You  and  that  lady  have  a  devil's  league, 
To  keep  a  devil's  secret.     Is  it  thus 
You  deal  with  me  ?     Now,  by  thje  light  above, 
I  'd  give  a  dukedom  for  some  fair  pretext 
To  lly  you  all  !     She  docs  not  love  me  '      \Vell, 
I  could  bear  that,  and  live  away  from  her. 
Love  would  be  sweet,  but  want  of  it  becomes 
An  early  habit  to  such  men  as  I. 
But  3rou  —  ah  !  there  's  the  sorrow  —  whom  1  loved 
An  infant  in  your  cradle  ;  you  who  «rn-\v 
Up  in  my  heart,  with  every  inch  yoii 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  441 

You  whom  I  loved  for  every  quality, 

Good,  bad,  and  common,  in  your  natural  stock  ; 

Ay,  for  your  very  beauty  !    It  is  strange,  you  '11  say, 

For  such  a  crippled  horror  to  do  that, 

Against  the  custom  of  his  kind  !     0  !  yes, 

I  love,  and  you  betray  me  ! 

Paolo.  Lanciotto, 

This  is  sheer  frenzy.     Join  your  bride. 

Lan.  I  '11  not ! 

What,  go  to  her,  to  feel  her  very  flesh 
Crawl  from  my  touch  ?  —  to  hear  her  sigh  and  moan, 
As  if  God  plagued  her  ?     Must  I  come  to  that  ? 
Must  I  endure  your  hellish  mystery 
With  my  own  wife,  and  roll  my  eyes  away 
In  sentimental  bliss  ?     No,  no  !  until 
I  go  to  her,  with  confident  belief 
In  her  integrity  and  candid  love, 
I  '11  shun  her  as  a  leper  !  \_JLlarm-bells  toll.] 

Mai  What  is  that  ? 

(Enter,  hastily, a  Messenger  in  disorder.) 

Messenger.    My  lord,  the  Ghibelins  are  up  — 

Lan.  And  I 

Will  put  them  down  again  !     I  thank  thee,  Heaven, 
For  this  unlooked-for  aid  !  [dside.] 

Mai.  What  force  have  they  ? 

Lan.    It  matters  not, —  nor  yet  the  time,   place, 

cause, 

Of  their  rebellion.     I  would  throttle  it, 
Were  it  a  riot,  or  a  drunken  brawl  ! 

Mai.    Nay,  son,  your  bride  — 

Lan.  My  bride  will  pardon  me  ; 

Bless  me,  perhaps,  as  I  am  going  forth  ;  — 


442  FRANCESCA   DA    RIMINI. 

Thank  me,  perhaps,  if  I  should  ne'er  return.    [j?si</e.] 
A  soldier's  duty  has  no  bridals  in  it. 

Paolo.    Lanciotto,  this  is  folly.     Let  me  take 
Your  usual  place  of  honor. 

Lan.    (Laughing.)  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

AVhat !  tliou,  a  tilt-yard  soldier,  lead  my  troops  ! 
My  wife  will  ask  it  shortly.     Not  a  word 
Of  opposition  from  the  new-made  bride  ? 
Nay,  she  looks  happier.     0  !  accursed  day, 
That  I  was  mated  to  an  empty  heart !  [Aside.1} 

Mai.    But,  son  — 

Lan.  Well,  father? 

Pepe.  Uncle,  let  him  go. 

He  '11  find  it  cooler  on  a  battle-field 
Than  in  his  — 

Lan.  Hark  !  the  fool  speaks  oracles. 

You,  soldiers,  who  are  used  to  follow  me, 
And  front  our  charges,  emulous  to  bear 
The  shock  of  battle  on  your  forward  arms, — 
Why  stand  ye  in  amazement  ?     Do  your  swords 
Stick  to  their  scabbards  with  inglorious  rust  ? 
Or  has  repose  so  weakened  your  big  hearts, 
That  you  can  dream  with  trumpets  at  your  ears  ? 
Out  with  your  steel !     It  shames  me  to  behold 
Such  tardy  welcome  to  my  war-worn  blade  !    [Draws.] 

(The  Knights  and  Soldiers  draw.) 

Ho !   draw   our    forces    out !     Strike   camp,    sound 

drums, 

And  set  us  on  our  marches  !     As  I  live, 
I  pity  the  next  foeman  who  relies 


FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMIXI.  443 

On  me  for  mercy  !     Farewell !  to  you  all  — 

To  all  alike  —  a  soldier's  short  farewell !  [Going.] 

(PAOLO  stands  before  him.) 

Out  of  my  way,  thou  juggler  !  [Exit.] 

Paolo.  He  is  gone  ! 


4  1  I  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.     The  Same.    The  Garden  of  the  Castle.     Enter  TEPE, 
singing. 

Pepe.    'T  is  jolly  to  walk  in  the  shady  greenwood 

With  a  damsel  by  your  side  ; 
'T  is  jolly  to  walk  from  the  chapel-door, 

With  the  hand  of  your  pretty  bride  ; 
'T  is  jolly  to  rest  your  weary  head, 
When  life  runs  low  and  hope  is  fled, 

On  the  heart  where  you  confide  : 
'T  is  jolly,  jolly,  jolly,  they  say, 

They  say  —  but  I  never  tried. 

Nor  shall  I  ever  till  they  dress  their  girls 

In  motley  suits,  and  pair  us,  to  increase 

The  race  of  fools.     'T  would  be  a  noble  thing, 

A  motley  woman,  had  she  wit  enough 

To  bear  the  bell.     But  there  's  the  misery  : 

You  may  make  princes  out  of  any  stuff ; 

Fools  come  by  nature.     She  '11  make  fifty  kings  — 

Good,  hearty  tyrants,  sound,  cru<-l  go*Mnor8- 

For  one  fine  fool.     There  is  Paolo,  n<>\\-, 

A  sweet-faced  fellow  with  a  wicked  heart  — 

Talk  of  a  flea,  and  you  begin  to  scratch. 

Lo  !  here  he  comes.     And  there  's  fierce  crook-1  -ark's 

bride 
Walking  beside  him  —  0,  how  gingerly  ! 


FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  445 

Take  care,  my  love  !  that  is  the  very  pace 
We  trip  to  hell  with.     Hunchback  is  away  — 
That  was  a  fair  escape  for  you  ;  but,  then, 
The  devil  's  ever  with  us,  and  that  ?s  worse. 
See,  the  Ravenna  giglet,  Mistress  Ritta, 
And  melancholy  as  a  cow.  —  How  's  this  ? 
1  '11  step  aside,  and  watch  you,  pretty  folks. 

\_Hidcs  behind  the  bushes.'] 

(Enter  PAOLO  and  FRANCESCA,  followed  by  RITTA.     He  seats  him 
self  in  an  arbor,  and  reads.     RITTA  and  FRAKCESCA  advance.) 

Francesco,.    Ritta. 

Ritta.  My  lady. 

Fran.  You  look  tired. 

Rit.  I  'm  not. 

Fran.    Go  to  your  chamber. 

Rit.  I  would  rather  stay, 

If  it  may  please  you.     I  require  a  walk 
And  the  fresh  atmosphere  of  breathing  flowers, 
To  stir  my  blood.     I  am  not  very  well. 

Fran.    I  knew  it,  child.    Go  to  your  chamber,  dear. 
Paolo  has  a  book  to  read  to  me. 

Rit.    What,  the  romance  ?       I  should  so   love  to 

hear  ! 

I  dote  on  poetry  ;  arid  Count  Paolo 
Sweetens  the  Tuscan  with  his  mellow  voice. 
I  'm  weary  now,  quite  weary,  and  would  rest. 

Fran.    Just  now  you  wished  to  walk. 

Rit.  Ah  \  did  I  so  ? 

Walking,  or  resting,  I  would  stay  with  you. 

Fran.    The  Count  objects.    lie  told  me,  yesterday, 
That  you  were  restless  while  he  read  to  me  ; 


116         .  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

And  stirred  your  feet  amid  the  grass,  and  sighed, 
And  yawned,  until  he  almost  paused. 

Rit.  Indeed 

I  will  be  quiet. 

Fran.  But  he  will  not  read. 

Rtt.    Let  me  go  ask  him.  [Runs  towards  PAOLO.] 

Fran.  Stop  1  Come  hither,  Ritta. 

[She  returns.] 

I  paw  your  new  embroidery  in  the  hall,  — 
The  needle  in  the  midst  of  Argus'  eyes ; 
It  should  be  finished. 

Rit.  I  will  bring  it  here.  — 

0  no  !  my  finger  's  sore  ;  I  cannot  work. 
Fran.    Go  to  your  room. 

Rit.  Let  me  remain,  I  pray. 

'T  is  better,  lady  ;  you  may  wish  for  me  : 

1  know  you  will  be  sorry  if  I  go. 

Fran.    I  shall  not,  girl.     Do  as  I  order  you. 
AY  ill  you  be  headstrong  ? 

Rit.  Do  you  wish  it,  then  ? 

Fran.    Yes,  Ritta. 

Rit.  Yet  you  made  pretexts  enough, 

Before  you  ordered. 

Fran.  You  are  insolent. 

Will  you  remain  against  my  will  ? 

Rit.  Yes,  lady ; 

Rather  than  not  remain. 

Fran.  Ha!  impudent! 

Rit.    You   wrong  me,  gentle  mistress.     Love  like 

mine 

Does  not  ask  questions  of  propriety, 
Nor  stand  on  manners.     I  would  do  you  good, 
Even  while  you  smote  me  ]  I  would  push  you  back, 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI.  447 

With  my  last  effort,  from  the  crumbling-  edge 
Of  some  high  rock  o'er  which  you  toppled  me. 

Fran.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Eit.  I  know. 

Fran.  Know  what  ? 

Eit.  Too  much. 

Pray,  do  not  ask  me. 

Fran.  Speak ! 

Eit.  I  know  —  dear  lady, 

Be  not  offended  — 

Fran.  Tell  me,  simpleton  ! 

Eit.      You  know  I  worship  you ;  you  know  I  M 

walk 

Straight  into  ruin  for  a  whim  of  yours  ; 
You  know  — 

Fran.         I  know  you  act  the  fool.     Talk  sense  i 

Eit.   I  know  Paolo  loves  you. 

Fran.  Should  he  not  ? 

He  is  my  brother. 

Eit.  More  than  brother  should. 

Fran.    Ha  !  are  you  certain  ? 

Eit.  Yes,  of  more  than 'that, 

Fran.    Of  more  ? 

Eit.  Yes,  lady  ;  for  you  love  him  too. 

I  've  said  it !     Fling  me  to  the  carrion  crows, 
Kill  me  by  inches,  boil  me  in  the  pot 
Count  Guido  promised  me,  —  but,  0,  beware  ! 
Back,  while  you  may  !     Make  me  the  sufferer, 
But  save  yourself ! 

Fran.  Now,  are  you  not  ashamed, 

To  look  me  in  the  face  with  that  bold  brow  ? 
I  am  amazed  ! 

Eit.  I  am  a  woman,  lady ; 


418  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI. 

I  too  have  been  in  love  ;  I  know  its  ways, 
Its  arts,  and  its  deceits.     Your  .frowning  face, 
And  seeming  indignation,  do  not  cheat. 
Your  heart  is  in  my  hand. 

Paolo.    (Calls.)  Francesca ! 

Fran.  Hence, 

Thou  wanton-hearted  minion  !  hence,  I  say  !  — 
And  never  look  me  in  the  face  again  !  — 
Hence,  thou  insulting  slave  ! 

Rit.   (Clinging  to  her.)          0  lady,  lady  — 

Fran.    Begone!  [Throws  her  off.} 

Rit.  I  have  no  friends  —  no  one  to  love  — 

0,  spare  me  I 

Fran.         Hence ! 

Rit.  Was  it  for  this  I  loved  — 

Cared  for  you  more  than  my  own  happiness  — 
Ever  at  heart  your  slave  —  without  a  wish 
For  greater  recompense  than  your  stray  smiles  ? 

Paolo.  (Calls.)  Francesca! 

Fran.  Hurry ! 

Hit.  I  am  gone.     Alas  ! 

God  bless  you,  lady  !     God  take  care  of  you, 
When  I  am  far  away  !     Alas,  alas  !         [Exit  wecpiny.] 

Fran.    Poor  girl  !  —  but  were  she  all  the  world  to 

me, 

And  held  iny  future  in  her  tender  grasp, 
I  'd  cast  her  off,  without  a  second  thought, 
To  savage  death,  for  dear  Paolo's  sake ! 
Paolo,  hither  !     Now  he  comes  to  me  ; 
J  feel  his  presence,  though  I  see  him  not, 
Stealing  upon  me  like  the  fervid  glow 
Of  morning  sunshine.     Now  he  comes  too  near  — 
He  touches  me  —  0  Heaven  ! 


FRANCE3CA    DA    RIMINI.  440 

Paolo.  Our  poem  waits. 

1  have  been  reading  while  you  talked  with  Ritta. 
How  did  you  get  her  oft'? 

Fran.  By  some  device. 

She  will  not  come  again. 

Paolo.  I  hate  the  girl : 

She  seems  to  stand  between  me  and  the  light. 
A.nd  now  for  the  romance.     Where  left  we  off? 

Fran.      Where    Lancelot    and    Queen    Guenevra 

strayed 

Along  the  forest,  in  the  youth  of  May. 
You  marked  the  figure  of  the  birds  that  sang 
Their  melancholy  farewell  to  the  sun  — 
Rich  in  his  loss,  their  sorrow  glorified  — 
Like  gentle  mourners  o'er  a  great  man's  grave. 
Was  it  not  there  ?     No,  no  ;  't  was  where  they  sat 
Down  on  the  bank,  by  one  impulsive  wish 
That  neither  uttered. 

Paolo.     (Turning  over  the  book.)     Here   it  is.      (Reads.) 

11  So  sat 

Guenevra  and  Sir  Lancelot "  —  JT  were  well 
To  follow  them  in  that.  [They  sit  upon  a  bank."] 

Fran.  I  listen  :  read. 

Nay,  do  not ;  I  can  wait,  if  you  desire. 

Paolo.    My  dagger  frets  me  ;  let  me  take  it  off. 

[Rises.] 
In  thoughts  of  love,  we  '11  lay  our  weapons  by. 

[Lays  aside  his  dagger,  and  sits  ayain.~\ 
Draw  closer:  I  am  weak  in  voice  to-day.         [Reads.] 

"  So  sat  Guenevra  and  Sir  Lancelot, 

Under  the  blaze  of  the  descending  sun, 
But  all  his  cloudy  splendors  were  forgot. 

Each  bore  a  thought,  the  only  secret  one, 
VOL.  T.  29 


450  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI. 

Which  each  had  hidden  from  the  other's  heart, 

Both  with  sweet  mystery  well-nigh  overrun. 
Anon,  Sir  Lancelot,  with  gentle  start, 

Put  by  the  ripples  of  her  golden  hair, 
Gazing  upon  her  with  his  lips  apart. 

He  marvelled  human  thing  could  be  so  fair ; 
Essayed  to  speak  ;  but,  in  the  very  deed, 

His  words  expired  of  self-betrayed  despair. 
Little  she  helped  him,  at  his  direst  need, 

Roving  her  eyes  o'er  hill,  and  wood,  and  sky, 
Peering  intently  at  the  meanest  weed  ; 

Ay,  doing  aught  but  look  in  Lancelot's  eye. 
Then,  with  the  small  pique  of  her  velvet  shoe, 

Uprooted  she  each  herb  that  blossomed  nigh ; 
Or  strange  wild  figures  in  the  dust  she  drew ; 

Until  she  felt  Sir  Lancelot's  arm  around 
Her  waist,  upon  her  cheek  his  breath  like  dew. 

While  through  his  fingers  timidly  he  wound 
Her  shining  locks;  and,  haply,  when  he  brushed 

Her  ivory  skin,  Guenevra  nearly  swound  : 
For  where  he  touched,  the  quivering  surface  blushed, 

Firing  her  blood  with  most  contagious  heat, 
Till  brow,  cheek,  neck,  and  bosom,  all  were  flushed. 

Each  heart  was  listening  to  the  other  beat. 
As  twin-born  lilies  on  one  golden  stalk, 

Drooping  with  Summer,  in  warm  languor  meet, 
So  met  their  faces.     Down  the  forest  walk 

Sir  Lancelot  looked  —  he  looked  east,  west,  north, 

south  — 
No  soul  was  nigh,  his  dearest  wish  to  balk  : 

She  smiled  ;  he  kissed  her  full  upon  the  mouth." 

[A'r  -      \    ] 

I  '11  read  I1O  more  !  [Starts  up,  dashinj  .W.<  /.',<•  W/,-.] 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI.  451 

Fran.  Paolo  ! 

Paolo.  I  am  mad  ! 

The  torture  of  unnumbered  hours  is  o'er, 
The  straining  cord  has  broken,  and  my  heart 
Riots  in  free  delirium  !     0,  Heaven  ! 
1  struggled  with  it,  but  it  mastered  me  ! 
I  fought  against  it,  but  it  beat  me  down  ! 
I  prayed,  I  wept,  but  Heaven  was  deaf  to  me  ; 
And  every  tear  rolled  backward  on  my  heart, 
To  blight  and  poison  ! 

Fran.  And  dost  thou  regret  ? 

Paolo.    The  love  ?     No,  no  !    I  M  dare  it  all  again, 
Its  direst  agonies  and  meanest  fears, 
For  that  one  kiss.     Away  with  fond  remorse  ! 
Here,  on  the  brink  of  ruin,  we  two  stand  ; 
Lock  hands  with  me,  and  brave  the  fearful  plunge  ! 
Thou  canst  not  name  a  terror  so  profound 
That  I  will  look  or  falter  from.     Be  bold  ! 
I  know  thy  love  —  I  knew  it  long  ago  — 
Trembled  and  fled  from  it.     But  now  I  clasp 
The  peril  to  my  breast,  and  ask  of  thee 
A  kindred  desperation. 

Fran.    ( Throwing  herself  into  his  arms.)    Take  me  all,  — • 
Body  and  soul !     The  women  of  our  clime 
Do  never  give  away  but  half  a  heart : 
I  have  not  part  to  give,  part  to  withhold, 
In  selfish  safety.     When  I  saw  thee  first, 
Riding  alone  amid  a  thousand  men, 
Sole  in  the  lustre  of  thy  majesty, 
And  Guido  da  Polenta  said  to  me, 
"  Daughter,  behold  thy  husband  !  "  witli  a  bound 
My  heart  went  forth  to  meet  thee.     He  deceived, 
He  lied  to  me  —  ah  !  that 's  the  aptest  word  — 


452  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIN'I. 

And  I  believed.     Shall  I  not  turn  again, 
And  meet  him,  craft  with  craft  ?     Paolo,  love. 
Thou  'rt  dull  —  thou  'rt  dying  like  a  feeble  fire 
Before  the  sunshine.     Was  it  but  a  blaze, 
A  flash  of  glory,  and  a  long,  long  night  ? 

Paolo.    No,  darling,  no  !     You  could  not  bend  me 

back  ; 

My  course  is  onward  ;  but  my  heart  is  sick 
With  coming  fears. 

Fran.  Away  with  them  !     Must  I 

Teach  thee  to  love  ?  and  re'inform  the  ear 
Of  thy  spent  passion  with  some  sorcery 
To  raise  the  chilly  dead  ? 

Paolo.  Thy  lips  have  not 

A  sorcery  to  rouse  me  as  this  spell.  [fosses  her.} 

Fran.    I  give  thy  kisses  back  to  thee  again : 
Arid,  like  a  spendthrift,  only  ask  of  thee 
To  take  while  I  can  give. 

Paolo.  <  I  i ve,  give  forever ! 

Have  we  not  touched  the  height  of  human  bliss  ? 
And  if  the  sharp  rebound  may  hurl  us  back 
Among  the  prostrate,  did  we  not  soar  once  ?  — 
Taste  heavenly  nectar,  banquet  with  the  gods 
On  high  Olympus  ?     If  they  cast  us,  now, 
Amid  the  furies,  shall  we  riot  go  down 
With  rich  ambrosia  clinging  to  our  lips, 
And  richer  memories  settled  in  our  hearts  ? 
Fran cose*. 

Fran.      Love  ? 

Paolo.  The  sun  is  sinking  low 

Upon  the  ashes  of  his  fading  pyre, 
And  gray  possesses  the  eternal  blue  ; 
The  evening  star  is  stealing  after  him, 


PRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI.  453 

Fixed,  like  a  beacon,  on  the  prow  of  night ; 
The  world  is  shutting1  up  its  heavy  eye 
Upon  the  stir  and  bustle  of  to-day  ;  — 
On  what  shall  it  awake  ? 

Fran.  On  love  that  gives 

Joy  at  all  seasons,  changes  night  to  day, 
Makes  sorrow  smile,  plucks  out  the  barbed  dart 
Of  moaning  anguish,  pours  celestial  balm 
In  all  the  gaping  wounds  of  earth,  and  lulls 
The  nervous  fancies  of  unsheltered  fear 
Into  a  slumber  sweet  as  infancy's  ! 
On  love  that  laughs  at  the  impending  sword, 
And  puts  aside  the  shield  of  caution  :  cries, 
To  all  its  enemies,  "  Corne,  strike  me  now  !  — 
Now,  while  I  hold  my  kingdom,  while  my  crown 
Of  amaranth  and  myrtle  is  yet  green, 
Undimmed,  unwithered  ;  for  I  cannot  tell 
That  I  shall  e'er  be  happier  !  "     Dear  Paolo, 
Would  you  lapse  down  from  misery  to  death, 
Tottering  through  sorrow  and  infirmity  ? 
Or  would  you  perish  at  a  single  blow, 
Cut  off  amid  your  wildest  revelry, 
Falling  among  the  wine-cups  and  the  flowers, 
And  tasting  Bacchus  when  your  drowsy  sense 
First  gazed  around  eternity  ?     Come,  love  ! 
The  present  whispers  joy  to  us  ;  we  '11  hear 
The  voiceless  future  when  its  turn  arrives. 

Paolo.    Thou  art  a  siren.     Sing,  forever  sing  ! 
Hearing  thy  voice,  I  cannot  tell  what  fate 
Thou  hast  provided  when  the  song  is  o'er  ;  — • 
But  I  will  venture  it. 

Fran.  In,  in,  my  love !  [Exeunt.] 


45-1  FRANCESCA    DA    HI  MI  XI. 

(PKPK  steals  from  behind  the  bushes.) 

Pepe.    0,  brother  Lanciotto  !  —  0,  my  stars  !  — 
If  this  thing  lasts,  I  simply  shall  go  mad  ! 

[Laufflis,  and  rolls  on  the  grouna.} 

0  Lord  !  to  think  my  pretty  lady  puss 

Had  tricks  like  this,  and  we  ne'er  know  of  it  ! 

1  tell  you,  Lanciotto,  you  and  I 
Must  have  a  patent  for  our  foolery  ! 

"  She  smiled  ;  he  kissed  her  full  upon  the  mouth  !  " — • 
There  's  the  beginning ;  where  's  the  end  of  it  ? 
0  poesy  !  debauch  thee  only  once, 
And  thou  'rt  the  greatest  wanton  in  the  world  ! 

0  cousin  Lanciotto  —  ho,  ho,  ho  !  [Laughing.'} 
Can  a  man  die  of  laughter  ?     Here  we  sat ; 
Mistress  Francesca  so  demure  and  calm  ; 

Paolo  grand,  poetical,  sublime  !  — 
Eh  !  what  is  this  ?     Paolo's  dagger  ?     Good  ! 
Here  is  more  proof,  sweet  cousin  Broken-back. 
"In  thoughts  of  love,  we  '11  lay  our  weapons  by  !  " 

[Mimicking  PAOLO.] 

That 's  very  pretty  !     Here  's  its  counterpart : 
In  thoughts  of  hate,  we  '11  pick  them  up  again  ! 

[Takes  the  da</</er.] 

Now  for  my  soldier,  now  for  crook-backed  Mars  ! 
Ere  long  all  Rimini  will  be  ablaze. 
He  '11  kill  me  ?     Yes  :  what  then  ?     That 's  nothing 

new, 

Except  to  me ;  I  '11  bear  for  custom's  sake. 
More  blood  will  follow;  like  the  royal  sun, 

1  shall  go  down  in  purple.     Fools  for  luck  ; 
The  proverb  holds  like  iron.     I  must  run, 
Ere  laughter  smother  me.  —  0,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

I  a  \Kjhiny.] 


FKANCESCA    DA    &MINI.  455 


SCENE    II. 

H  Camp  among  the  Hills.     Before   LANCIOTTO'S   tent.     Enter, 
from,  the  tent,  LANCIOTTO. 

Lanciotto.    The    camp  is  strangely  quiet.     Not  a 

sound 

Breaks  nature's  high  solemnity.     The  sun 
Repeats  again  his  e very-day  decline  ; 
Yet  all  the  world  looks  sadly  after  him, 
As  if  the  customary  sight  were  new. 
Yon  moody  sentinel  goes  slowly  by, 
Through  the  thick  mists  of  evening,  with  his  spear 
Trailed  at  a  funeral  hold.     Long  shadows  creep, 
From  things  beyond  the  furthest  range  of  sight, 
Up  to  my  very  feet.     These  mystic  shades 
Are  of  the  earth  ;  the  light  that  causes  them, 
Arid  teaches  us  the  quick  comparison, 
Is  all  from  heaven.     Ah  !  restless  man  might  crawl 
With  patience  through  his  shadowy  destiny, 
If  he  were  senseless  to  the  higher  light 
Towards  which  his   soul  aspires.     How  grand  and 

vast 

Is  yonder  show  of  heavenly  pageantry  ! 
How  mean  and  narrow  is  the.  earthly  stand 
From  which  we  gaze  on  it !     Magnificent, 
0  God,  art  thou  amid  the  sunsets  !     Ah  ! 
What  heart  in  Rimini  is  softened  now, 
Towards  iny  defects,  by  this  grand  spectacle  ? 
Perchance,  Paolo  now  forgives  the  wrong 
Of  my  hot  spleen.     Perchance,  Francesca  now 
Wishes  me  back,  and  turns  a  tenderer  eye 
On  my  poor  person  and  ill-mannered  ways  ; 


456  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Fashions  excuses  for  me,  schools  her  heart 
Through  duty  into  love,  and  ponders  o'er 
The  sacred  meaning  in  the  name  of  wife. 
Dreams,    dreams !      Poor   fools,   we    squander   love 

away 

On  thankless  borrowers  ;  when  bankrupt  quite, 
We  sit  and  wonder  of  their  honesty. 
Love,  take  a  lesson  from  the  usurer, 
And  never  lend  but  on  security. 
Captain ! 

(Enter  a  CAPTAIN.) 

Captain.    My  lord. 

Lan.  They  worsted  us  to-day. 

Capt.    Not  much,  my  lord. 

Lan.  With  little  loss,  indeed. 

Their  strength  is  in  position.     Mark  you,  sir. 

[Draws  on  the  ground  with  his  sword.} 
Here  is  the  pass ;  it  opens  towards  the  plain, 
With  gradual  widening,  like  a  lady's  fan. 
The  hills  protect  their  flanks  on  either  hand  ; 
And,  as  you  see,  we  cannot  show  more  front 
Than  their  advance  may  give  us.     Then,  the  rocks 
Are  sorry  footing  for  our  horse.     Just  here, 
Close  in  against  the  left-hand  hills,  I  marked 
A  strip  of  wood,  extending  down  the  gorge : 
Behind  that  wood  dispose  your  force  ere  dawn. 
I  shall  begin  the  onset,  then  give  ground, 
And  draw  them  out;  while  you,  behind  the  wood, 
Must  steal  along,  until  their  flank  and  rear 
Oppose  your  column.     Then  set  up  a  shout, 
Hurst  from  the  wood,  and  drive  them  on  our  spears, 
They  have  no  outpost  in  the  wood,  I  know  ; 
T  ifi  too  far  from  their  centre.     On  the  morrow , 


FRANCESCA    DA    RTMIXT.  457 

When  they  are  flushed  with  seeming  victory, 
And  think  my  whole  division  in  full  rout, 
They  will  not  pause  to  scrutinize  the  wood ; 
So  you  may  enter  boldly.     We  will  use 
The  heart  to-day's  repulse  has  given  to  them, 
For  our  advantage.     Do  you  understand  ? 

Capt.    Clearly,  my  lord. 

Lan.  If  they  discover  you, 

Before  you  gain  your  point,  wheel,  and  retreat 
Upon  my  rear.     If  your  attack  should  fail 
To  strike  them  with  a  panic,  and  they  turn 
In  too  great  numbers  on  your  small  command, 
Scatter  your  soldiers  through  the  wood : 
Let  each  seek  safety  for  himself. 

Capt.  I  see. 

Lan.    Have  Pluto  shod  ;  he  cast  a  shoe  to-day : 
Let  it  be  done  at  once.     My  helmet,  too, 
Is  worn  about  the  lacing ;  look  to  that. 
Where  is  my  armorer  ? 

Capt.  At  his  forge. 

Lan.  Your  charge 

Must  be  at  sunrise — just  at  sunrise,  sir  — 
Neither  before  nor  after.     You  must  march 
At  moonset,  then,  to  gain  the  point  ere  dawn. 
That  is  enough. 

Capt.  Good-even!  [Going.] 

Lan.  Stay,  stay,  stay  ! 

My  sword-hilt  feels  uneasy  in  my  grasp  ; 

[Gives  his  sword.} 

Have  it  repaired  ;  and  grind  the  point.    Strike  hard  ! 
I  '11  teach  these  Ghibelins  a  lesson. 

[Loud  laughter  within.'} 


408  FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Ha! 

What  is  that  clamor  ? 

(Enter  hastily  PEPE,  tattered  and  travel-stained.) 

Pepe.  News  from  Rimini !     [Falls  exhausted.} 

Lan.   Is  that  you,  Pepe  ?     Captain,  a  good-night ! 

[Exit  CAPTAIN.] 

I  never  saw  you  in  such  straits  before. 
Wit  without  words ! 

Pepe.     That 's  better  than  —  0  !  —  0  !  —  [Panting.} 
Words  without  wit. 

Lan.    (Laughing.)     You  '11  die  a  jester,  Pepe. 

Pepe.    If  so,  I  '11  leave  the  needy  all  my  wit. 
You,  you  shall  have  it,  cousin.  —  0  !  0  !  0  ! 

[Panting. } 

Those  devils  in  the  hills,  the  Ghibelins, 

Ran  me  almost  to  death.     My  lord  —  ha  !  ha  ! 

[Laughing.] 

It  all  comes  back  to  me  —  0  !  Lord  'a  mercy  !  — 

The  garden,  -and  the  lady,  and  the  Count ! 

Not  to  forget  the  poetry  —  ho  !  ho  !  [Laughing.} 

0  !  cousin  Lanciotto,  such  a  wife, 

And  such  a  brother  1     Hear  me,  ere  I  burst ! 
Lan.    You  're  pleasant,  Pepe  ! 

Pepe.  Ami?  —  Ho!    ho!   ho!      [Laughing.} 

You  ought  to  be  ;  your  wife  's  a 

Lan.  What  ? 

Pepe.  A  lady  — 

A  lady,  I  suppose,  like  all  the  rest. 

1  am  not  in  their  secrets.     Such  a  fellow 
As  Count  Paolo  is  your  man  for  that. 

I  '11  tell  you  something,  if  you  '11  swear  a  bit. 
Lan.   Swear  what  ? 
Pepe.  First,  swear  to  listen  till  the  end.  — 


FRAXCESCA    DA    RIMIXT.  4f>9 

0  !  you  may  rave,  curse,  howl,  and  tear  your  hair ; 
But  you  must  listen. 

Laii.  For  your  jest's  sake  ?     Well. 

Pepe.    You  swear  ? 
Lan.  I  do. 

Pepe.  Next,  swear  to  know  the  truth. 

Lan.    The  truth  of  a  fool's  story  I 
Pepe.  You  mistake. 

Now,  look  you,  cousin  !     You  have  often  marked  — 

1  know,  for  I  have  seen  —  strange  glances  pass 
Between  Paolo  and  your  lady  wife.  — 

Lan.   Ha  !  Pepe  ! 

Pepe.  Now  I  touch  you  to  the  quick. 

I  know  the  reason  of  those  glances. 

Lan.  Ha  ! 

Speak  !  or  I  '11  throttle  you  I  [Seizes  him.] 

Pepe.  Your  way  is  odd. 

Let  go  my  gullet,  and  I  '11  talk  you  deaf. 
Swear  my  last  oath  :  only  to  know  the  truth. 

Lan.    But  that  may  trouble  me. 

Pepe.  Your  honor  lies  — 

Your  precious  honor,  cousin  Chivalry  — 
Lies  bleeding  with  a  terrible  great  gash, 
Without  its  knowledge.  Swear  ! 

Lan.  My  honor  ?     Speak  I 

Pepe.   You  swear  ? 

Lan.  I  swear.     Your  news  is  ill,  perchance  ? 

Pepe.    Ill !  would  I  bring  it  else  ?     Am  I  inclined 
To  run  ten  leagues  with  happy  news  for  you  ? 
0,  Lord  !  that  7s  jolly  ! 

Lan.  You  infernal  imp, 

Out  with  your  story,  ere  I  strangle  you ! 


4 CO  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIN'I. 

Pepe.    Then  take  a  fast  hold  on  your  two  great 

oaths, 

To  steady  tottering  manhood,  and  attend. 
Last  eve,  about  this  hour,  I  took  a  stroll 
Into  the  garden.  —  Are  you  listening,  cousin  ? 

Lan.   I  am  all  ears. 

Pepe.  Why,  so  an  ass  might  say. 

Lan.   Will  you  be  serious  ? 

Pepe.  Wait  a  while,  and  we 

Will  both  be  graver  than  a  church-yard.     Well, 
Down  the  long  walk,  towards  me,  came  your  wrife, 
With  Count  Paolo  walking  at  her  side. 
It  was  a  pretty  sight,  and  so  I  stepped 
Into  the  bushes.     Ritta  came  with  them  ; 
And  Lady  Fanny  had  a  grievous  time 
To  get  her  off.     That  made  me  curious. 
Anon,  the  pair  sat  down  upon  a  bank, 
To  read  a,poem  ;  —  the  tenderest  romance, 
All  about  Lancelot  and  Queen  Guenevra. 
The  Count  read  well  —  I  '11  say  that  much  for  him-— 
Only  he  stuck  too  closely  to  the  text, 
Got  too  much  wrapped  up  in  the  poesy, 
And  played  Sir  Lancelot's  actions,  out  and  out, 
On  Queen  Francesca.     Nor  in  royal  parts 
Was  she  so  backward.     When  he  struck  the  line  — 
"  She  smiled  ;  he  kissed  her  full  upon  the  mouth  ;  " 
Your  lady  smiled,  and,  by  the  saints  above, 
Paolo  carried  out  the  sentiment ! 
Can  I  not  move  you  ? 

Lan.  With  such  trash  as  this  ? 

And  so  you  ran  ten  leagues  to  tell  a  lie  ?  — 
Run  home  again. 

Pepe.  I  am  not  ready  yet. 


FKAXCE3CA    DA    RIMINI.  461 

After  the  kiss,  up  springs  our  amorous  Count, 
Flings  Queen  Guenevra  and  Sir  Lancelot 
Straight  to  the  devil ;  growls  and  snaps  his  teeth, 
Laughs,  weeps,  howls,  dances  ;  talks  about  his  love, 
His  madness,  suffering,  and  the  Lord  knows  what, 
Bullying  the  lady  like  a  thief.     But  she, 
All  this  hot  time,  looked  cool  and  mischievous  ; 
Gave  him  his  halter  to  the  very  end  ; 
And  when  he  calmed  a  little,  up  she  steps 
And  takes  him  by  the  hand.     You  should  have  seen 
How  tame  the  furious  fellow  was  at  once  ! 
How  he  came  down,  snivelled,  and  cowed  to  her, 
And  fell  to  kissing  her  again  !     It  was 
A  perfect  female  triumph  !     Such  a  scene 
A  man  might  pass  through  life  and  never  see. 
More  sentiment  then  followed, — buckets  full 
Of  washy 'words,  not  worth  my  memory. 
But  all  the  while  she  wound  his  Countship  up, 
Closer  and  closer  ;  till  at  last  —  tu  !  —  wit !  — 
She  scoops  him  up,  and  off  she  carries  him, 
Fish  for  her  table  !     Follow,  if  you  can  ; 
v  My  fancy  fails  me.     All  this  time  you  smile  ! 

Lan.    You  should  have  been  a  poet,  not  a  fool. 

Pepe.    I  might  be  both. 

Lan.  You  made  no  record,  then  ? 

Must  this  fine  story  die  for  want  of  ink  ? 
Left  you  no  trace  in  writing  ? 

Pepe.  None. 

Lan.  Alas ! 

Then  you  have  told  it  ?     'T  is  but  stale,  my  boy  ; 
I  'in  second  hearer. 

Pepe.  You  are  first,  in  faith. 

Lan.    In  truth  ? 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Pepe.    In  sadness.     You  have  got  it  fresh. 
I  had  no  time  ;  I  itched  to  reach  your  ear. 
Now  go  to  Rimini,  and  see  yourself. 
You  '11  find  them  in  the  garden.     Lovers  are 
Like  walking  ghosts,  they  always  haunt  the  spot 
Of  their  misdeeds. 

Lan.  But  have  I  heard  you  out  ? 

You  told  me  all  ? 

Pepe.  All ;  I  have  nothing  left. 

Lan.    Why,  you  brain-stricken  idiot,  to  trust 
Your  story  and  your  body  in  my  grasp  !     [Seizes  him.] 

Pepe.    Unhand  me,  cousin  ! 

Lan.  When  I  drop  you,  Pepe, 

You  711  be  at  rest, 

Pepe.  I  will  betray  you  —  0  ! 

Lan.    Not  till  the  judgment  day.         [They  struggle.] 

Pepe.    (Drawing  PAOLO'S  dagger.)  Take  that  ! 

Lan.    (  Wresting  the  dagger  from  him.)  Well  meant, 

But  poorly  done  !     Here  ;s  my  return.        [Stabs  him.] 

Pepe.  0!  beast!     [Falls.] 

This  1  expected  ;  it  is  naught  —  Ha!  ha!  [Laughing.] 
]  Ml  go  to  sleep  ;  but  you  —  what  you  will  bear ! 
Hunchback,  come  here  ! 

Lan.  Fie  !  say  your  prayers. 

Pepe.  Hark,  hark ! 

Paolo  hired  me,  swine,  to  murder  you. 

Lan.   That  is  a  lie  ;  you  never  cared  for  gold. 

/'••/H\    He  did,  I  say  !    I  '11  swear"  to  it,  by  heaven  ! 
Do  you  believe  me  ? 

Lan.  No ! 

Pepe.  You  lie  !  you  lie  ! 

Look  at  the  dagger,  cousin  — Ugh  !  —  good-night ! 

[Dies.] 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI.  463 

Lan.    0  !  horrible  !     It  was  a  gift  of  mine  - 
He  never  laid  it  by.     Speak,  speak,  fool,  speak  ! 

[Shakes  the  body.'} 
How  didst  thou  get  it  ?  —  speak  !     Thou  'rt  warm  - 

not  dead  — 
Thou  hast  a  tongue  —  0!    speak!    Come,   come,   a 

jest  - 

Another  jest  from  those  thin  mocking  lips  ! 
Call  me  a  cripple  —  hunchback  —  what  thou  wLt ; 
But  speak  to  me  !     He  cannot.     Now,  by  heaven, 
I  '11  stir  this  business  till  1  find  the  truth  ! 
Am  I  a  fool?     It  is  a  silly  lie, 
Coined  by  yon  villain  with  his  last  base  breath. 
What  ho  !  without  there  ! 

(Enter  CAPTAIN  and  Soldiers.} 

Captain.  Did  you  call,  my  lord  ? 

Lan.    Did  Heaven  thunder  ?     Are  you  deaf,  you 

louts  ? 

Saddle  my  horse  !     What  are  you  staring  at  ? 
Is  it  your  first  look  at  a  dead  man  ?     Well, 
Then  look  your  fill.     Saddle  my  horse,  I  say  ! 
Black  Pluto  —  stir!     Bear  that  assassin  hence. 
Chop  him  to  pieces,  if  he  move.     My  horse  ! 
Gapt.    My  lord,  he  's  shoeing. 
-Lan.  Did  I  ask  for  shoes  ? 

I  want  my  horse.     Run,  fellow,  run  !     Unbarbed  — 
My  lightest  harness  on  his  back.     Fly,  fly  ! 

[Exit  a  Soldier. ] 
[The  others  pick  up  the  body.} 
Ask  him,  I  pray  you,  if  he  did  not  lie  ! 
Gapt.    The  man  is  dead,  my  lord. 


46 A  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Lan.    (Laughing.)  Then  do  not  ask  him  ! 

[Exeunt  Soldiers  with  the  body."] 

By  Jupiter,  I  shall  go  mad,  I  think !       [Walks  about.'] 
Capt.    Something-  disturbs  him.    Do  you  mark  the 

spot 

Of  purple  on  his  brow  ?  [Apart  to  a  Soldier.] 

Soldier.  Then  blood  must  flow. 

Lan.    Boy,    boy!     (Enter  a  Page.)     My  cloak   and 

riding-staff.     Quick,  quick  ! 

How  you  all  lag !     (Exit  Page.)     I  ride  to  Rimini. 
Skirmish  to-morrow.     Wait  till  my  return  — 
I  shall  be  back  at  sundown.     You  shall  see 
What  slaughter  is  then  ! 

Capt.  Ho  !  turn  out  a  guard  !  — 

Lan.    I  wish  no  guard  ;  I  ride  alone. 

[Reenter  Page,  u:ith  a  cloak  and  staff.] 
[Taking  them.]      Well  done  1 
Thou  art  a  pretty  boy.  —  And  now  my  horse  ! 

(Enter  a  Soldier.) 

Soldier.    Pluto  is  saddled  — 

Lan.  "£  is  a  damned  black  lie  ! 

Sol.    Indeed,  my  lord  — 

Lan.  0!  comrade,  pardon  me: 

I  talk  at  random.     What,  Paolo  too, — 
A  boy  whom  I  have  trotted  on  my  knee  ! 
Poh  !  I  abuse  myself  by  such  a  thought. 
Francesca  may  not  love  me,  may  love  him  — 
Indeed  she  ought;  but  when  an  angel  comes 
To  play  the  wanton  on  this  filth}-  earth, 
Then  I  '11  believe  her  guilty.     Look  you,  sir ! 
Ami  quite  calm  ? 

Capt.  Quite  calm,  my  lord. 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  465 

Lan.  You  see 

No  trace  of  passion  on  my  face  ?  —  No  sign 
Of  ugly  humors,  doubts,  or  fears,  or  aught 
That  may  disfigure  God's  intelligence  ? 
I  have  a  grievous  charge  against  you,  sir, 
That  may  involve  your  life  ;  and  if  you  doubt 
The  candor  of  my  judgment,  choose  your  time  : 
Shall  I  arraign  you  now  ? 

Capt.  Now,  if  you  please. 

I  '11  trust  my  cause  to  you  and  innocence 
At  any  time.     I  am  not  conscious  — 

Lan.  Pshaw ! 

I  try  myself,  not  you.     And  I  am  calm  — 
That  is  your  verdict  —  and  dispassionate  ? 

Capt.    So  far  as  I  can  judge. 

Lan.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well ! 

Then  I  will  ride  to  Rimini.     Good-night !  [Exit.] 

[The  others  look  after  hi?n,  amazedly,  and  exeunt.] 


SCENE  III. 

Rimini.     The  Garden  of  the  Castle.     Enter  PAOLO  and  FRAN 
CESCA. 

Francesco,.    Thou  hast  resolved  ? 

Paolo.  I  Ve  sworn  it. 

Fran.  Ah  !  you  men 

Can  talk  of  love  and  duty  in  a  breath  ; 
Love  while  you  like,  forget  when  you  are  tired, 
And  salve  your  falsehood  with  some  wholesome  saw  ; 
But  we,  poor  women,  when  we  give  our  hearts, 
Give  all,  lose  all,  and  never  ask  it  back. 

VOL.  i.  30 


406  FRAXCESCA    DA    KIMIXI. 

Paolo.    What  couldst  thou  ask  for  that  I  have  not 

given  ? 

With  love  I  gave  thee  manly  probity, 
Innocence,  honor,  self-respect,  and  peace. 
Lanciotto  will  return,  and  how  shall  I  — 

0  !  shame,  to  think  of  it !  —  how  shall  I  look 
My  brother  in  the  face  ?  take  his  frank  hand  ? 
Keturn  his  tender  glances  ?     I  should  blaze 
With  guilty  blushes. 

Fran.  Thou  canst  forsake  me,  then, 

To  spare  thyself  a  little  bashful  pain  ? 
Paolo,  dost  thou  know  what  't  is  for  me, 
A  woman  —  nay,  a  dame  of  highest  rank  — 
To  lose  my  purity  ?  to  walk  a  path 
A\rhose  slightest  slip  may  fill  my  ear  with  sounds 
That  hiss  me  out  to  infamy  and  death  ? 
JIavr  I  no  secret  pangs,  no  self-respect, 
No  husband's  look  to  bear?     0  !  worse  than  these, 

1  must  endure  his  loathsome  touch  ;  be  kind 
AVhon  lie  would  dally  with  his  wife,  and  smile 

To  see  him  play  thy  part.     Pah  !  sickening'thought ! 
From  that  thou  art  exempt.     Thou  shall  not  go! 
Thou  dost  not  love  me  ! 

Paolo.  Love  thce  !     Standing  here, 

With  countless  miseries  upon  my  head, 
I  say,  my  love  for  thee  grows  day  by  day. 
It  palters  with  my  conscience,  blurs  my  thoughts 
Of  duty,  and  confuses  my  ideas 
Of  right  and  wrong.     Ere  long,  it  will  persuade 
My  shaking  manhood  that  all  this  is  just. 

Fran.    Let  it !    I  '11  blazon  it  to  all  the  world, 
Ere  I  will  lose  theo.     Nay,  if!  had  choice, 
Between  our  lovo  and  my  lost  innocence, 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  461 

I  tell  tlico  calmly,  I  would  dare  again 

The  deed  which  we  have  done.     0  !  thou  art  cruel 

To  fly  me,  like  a  coward,  for  thy  ease. 

When  thou  art  gone,  thou  'It  flatter  thy  weak  heart 

With  hopes  arid  speculations  ;  and  thou  'It  swear 

I  suffer  naught,  because  thou  dost  not  sec. 

1  will  not  live  to  bear  it ! 

Paolo.  Die,  —  't  were  best ; 

'T  is  the  last  desperate  comfort  of  our  sin. 

Fran.    I  '11  kill  myself! 

Paolo.  And  so  would  I,  with  joy  ; 

But  crime  has  made  a  craven  of  me.     0  ! 
For  some  good  cause  to  perish  in  I     Something 
A  man  might  die  for,  looking  in  God's  face  ; 
Not  slinking  out  of  life  with  guilt  like  mine 
Piled  on  the  shoulders  of  a  suicide  ! 

Fran.    Where  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Paolo.  I  care  not ;  anywhere 

Out  of  this  Rimini.     The  very  things 
That  made  the  pleasures  of  my  innocence 
Have  turned  against  me.     There  is  not  a  tree, 
Nor  house,  nor  church,  nor  monument,  whose  face 
Took  hold  upon  my  thoughts,  that  does  not  frown 
Balefully  on  me.     From  their  marble  tombs 
My  ancestors  scowl  at  me  ;  and  the  night 
Thickens  to  hear  their  hisses.     I  would  pray, 
But  heaven  jeers  at  it.     Turn  where'er  I  will, 
A  curse  pursues  me. 

Fran.  Heavens  !     0,  say  not  so  I 

I  never  cursed  thee,  love  ;  I  never  moved 
My  little  finger,  ere  I  looked  to  thee 
For  my  instruction. 

Paolo.  But  thy  gentleness 


408  FRANCE3CA    DA     RIMINI. 

Seems  to  reproach  me  ;  and,  instead  of  joy, 
It  whispers  horror  ! 

Fran.  Cease  !  cease ! 

Paolo.  I  must  go. 

Fran.    And  I  must  follow.     All  that  I  call  life 
Is  bound  in  thee.     I  could  endure  for  thee 
More  agonies  than  thou  canst  catalogue  — 
For  thy  sake,  love  —  bearing  the  ill  for  thee  I 
With  thee,  the  devils  could  not  so  contrive 
That  I  would  blench  or  falter  from  my  love  ! 
Without  thee,  heaven  were  torture  ! 

Paolo.  I  must  go.          [Going} 

Fran .    0  !  no  —  Paolo  —  dearest !  - 

[Clinying  to  him.} 

Paolo.  Loose  thy  hold  ! 

;Tis  for  thy  sake,  and  Lanciotto's  ;  I 
Am  as  a  cipher  in  the  reckoning. 
I  have  resolved.     Thou  canst  but  stretch  the  time. 
Keep  me  to-day,  and  I  will  fly  to-morrow  — 
Steal  from  thee  like  a  thief.  [St  rubles  with  her.} 

Fran.  Paolo  —  love  — 

Indeed,  you  hurt  me  !  —  Do  not  use  me  thus  ! 
Kill  me,  but  do  not  leave  me.      1  will  laugh  — 
A  long,  gay,  ringing  laugh — if  thou  wilt  draw 
Thy  pitying  sword,  and  stab  me  to  the  heart ! 
(Enter  LAXCIOTTO  behind.) 

Nay,  then,  one  kiss  ! 

Lanciotlo.     (Advancing between  them  )     Take  it  :    'twill 
be  the  last. 

Paolo.    Lo  !  Heaven  is  just ! 

Fran.  The  last !  so  be  it.     [A'iss«  PAOI.O.] 

Lan.  Ha! 

Dare  you  these  tricks  before  my  very  face  ? 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMIXI.  4G9 

Fran.    Why  not  ?     I  've  kissed  him  in  the  sight  of 

heaven  ; 
Are  you  above  it  ? 

Paolo.  Peace,  Francesca,  peace  I 

Lan.    Paolo  —  why,  thou  sad  and  downcast  man, 
Look  up  !  I  have  some  words  to  speak  with  thee. 
Thou  art  not  guilty  ? 

Paolo.  Yes,  I  am.     But  she 

Has  been  betrayed  ;  so  she  is  innocent. 
Her  father  tampered  with  her.     I  — 

Fran.  JT is  false! 

The  guilt  is  mine.     Paolo  was  entrapped 
By  love  and  cunning.     I  am  shrewder  far 
Than  you  suspect. 

Paolo.  Lanciotto,  shut  thy  ears  ; 

She  would  deceive  thee. 

Lan.  Silence,  both  of  you  ! 

Is  guilt  so  talkative  in  its  defence  ? 
Then,  let  me  make  you  judge  and  advocate 
In  your  own  cause.     You  are  not  guilty  ? 

Paolo.  Yes. 

Lan.    Deny  it  —  but  a  word  —  say  no.     Lie,  lie  I 
And  1 711  believe. 

Paolo.  I  dare  not. 

Lan.  Lady,  you  ? 

Fran.    If  I  might  speak  for  him  — 

Lan.  It  cannot  be  : 

Speak  for  yourself.     Do  you  deny  your  guilt  ? 

Fran.    No  !    I  assert  it ;  but  — 

Lan.  In  heaven's  name,  hold 

Will  neither  of  you  answer  no  to  me  ? 
A  nod,  a  hint,  a  sign,  for  your  escape. 
Bethink  you,  life  is  centred  in  this  thing. 


470  FRANCESCA    DA     RIMINI. 

Speak  !  I  will  credit  either.     No  reply  ? 
What  does  your  crime  deserve  ? 

Paulo.  Death. 

Fran.  Death  to  both 

Lan.    Well  said  !     You  speak  the  law  of  Italy  ; 
And  by  the  dagger  you  designed  for  me, 
In  Pepe's  hand,  —  your  bravo  ? 

Paolo.  It  is  false  ! 

If  you  received  my  dagger  from  his  hand, 
lie  stole  it. 

Lan.         There,  sweet  heaven,  I  knew  !    And  now 
You  will  deny  the  rest  ?     You  see,  my  friends, 
How  easy  of  belief  I  have  become  !  — 
How  easy  't  were  to  cheat  me  ! 

Paolo.  No  ;  enough  ! 

I  will  not  load  my  groaning  spirit  more  ; 
A.  lie  would  crush  it. 

Lan.  Brother,  once  you  gave 

Life  to  this  wretched  piece  of  workmanship, 
When  my  own  hand  resolved  its  overthrow. 
Revoke  the  gift.  {Offers  to  stab  himself.} 

Paolo.     (Preventing  him .)    Hold,  homicide  ! 

Lan.  But  think, 

You  and  Francesca  may  live  happily, 
A  fter  my  death,  as  only  lovers  can. 

Paolo.    Live  happily,  after  a  deed  like  this  ! 

Lan.    Now,  look  ye  I  there  is  not  one  hour  of  life 
Among  us  three.     Paolo,  you  are  armed  — 
You  have  a  sword,  I  but  a  dagger  :  see  ! 
I  mean  to  kill  you. 

Fran.    (Whispers  PAOLO.)    Give  thy  sword  to  me. 

Paolo.    Away  !  thou  'rt  frantic  !     I  will  never  lift 
This  wicked  hand  against  thee. 


FRAXCKSCA    DA     RIMINI.  4*1 

Lan.  Coward,  slave ! 

Art  them  so  faint  ?     Does  Malatesta's  blood 
Kan  in  thy  puny  veins  ?     Take  that !        [Strikes  him.} 

Paolo.  And  more  : 

Thou  canst  not  offer  more  than  I  will  bear. 

Lan.    Paolo,  what  a  craven  has  thy  guilt 
Transformed  thee  to  !     Why,  I  have  seen-  the  time 
When  thou'dst  have  struck  at  heaven  for  such  a 

thing  ! 
Art  thou  afraid  ? 

Paolo.  I  am. 

Lan.  0  !  infamy  ! 

Can  man  sink  lower  ?     I  will  wake  thee,  though  :  — • 
Thou  shalt  not  die  a  coward.     See  !  look  here  ! 

[Stabs  FRANCESCA.] 

Fran.    0  !  —  0  !  —  [Falls.] 

Paolo.  Remorseless  man,  dare  you  do  this, 

And  hope  to  live  ?     Die,  murderer  ! 

[Draws,  rushes  at  him,  but  pauses,} 

Lan.  Strike,  strike  ! 

Ere  thy  heart  fail. 

Paolo.  I  cannot.          [Throws  away  his  sward.] 

Lan.  Dost  thou  see 

Yon  bloated  spider  —  hideous  as  myself — 
Climbing  aloft,  to  reach  that  wavering  twig  ? 
When  he  has  touched  it,  one  of  us  must  die. 
Here  is  the  dagger.  —  Look  at  me,  I  say  ! 
Keep  your  eyes  from  that  woman !     Look,   think, 

choose ! — 
Turn  here  to  me  :  thou  shalt  not  look  at  her ! 

Paolo.    0,  heaven  ! 

Lan.  'T  is  done  I 


472  FRANCESCA    DA     RIMINI. 

Paolo.    (Struggling  with  him.)    0!  Lanciotto,  hold  I 
Hold,  for  thy  sake  !     Thou  wilt  repent  this  deed. 

Lan.    I  know  it. 

Fran.    ( Rising.)  Help  !  —  0  !  murder !  —  help,  help, 
help  !  [She  totters  towards  them,  and  falls.] 

Lan.    Our  honor,  boy  !  [Stabs  PAOLO,  he  falls.} 

Fran.  Paolo  I 

Pooh.  Hark  I  she  calls. 

I  pray  thee,  brother,  help  me  to  her  side. 

[LANCIOTTO  helps  him  to  FRANCESCA.] 

Lan.    Why,  there  ! 

Paolo.  God  bless  thee  ! 

Lan.  Have  I  not  done  well  ? 

What  were  the  honor  of  the  Malatesti, 
With  such  a  living  slander  fixed  to  it  ? 
Cripple  !  that 's  something  —  cuckold  !  that  is 

damned  ! 
You  blame  me  ? 

Paolo.  No. 

y 

Lan.  You,  lady  ? 

Fran.  No,  my  lord. 

Lan.    May  God  forgive  you  I    We  are  even  now : 
Your  blood  has  cleared  my  honor,  and  our  name 
Shines  to  the  world  as  ever. 

Paolo.  0  !  —  0  !  - 

Fran.  Love, 

Art  suffering  ? 

Paolo.  But  for  thee. 

Fran.  Here,  rest  thy  head 

Upon  my  bosom.     Fie  upon  my  blood  ! 
It  stains  thy  ringlets.    Ha  !  he  dies  !    Kind  saints, 
I  was  first  struck,  why  cannot  I  die  first  ? 
Paolo,  wake  !  —  God's  mercy  !  wilt  thou  go 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI.  473 

Alone  —  without  me  ?     Prithee,  strike  again  ! 

Nay,  I  am  better  —  love  —  now  —  0  !  [  Dies.'] 

Lan.    (Sinks  upon  his  knees.)     Great  heaven  ! 

Malatesta.    ( Without.)    This  way,  I  heard  the  cries. 
( Enter,  ivithQtvino,  Attendants,  etc.) 

Guido.  0  !  horrible  ! 

Mai.  0  !  bloody  spectacle  !   Where  is  thy  brother  ? 

Lan.    So  Cain  was  asked.     Come  here,  old  men  1 

You  shrink 

From  two  dead  bodies  and  a  pool  of  blood  — 
You  soldiers,  too  !     Come  here  ! 

[Drays  MALATESTA  and  GUIDO  forward.] 
\    Mai  0!  —  0!- 

Lan.  You  groan ! 

What  must  I  do,  then  ?    Father,  here  it  is,  — 
The  blood  of  Guido  mingled  with  our  own, 
As  my  old  nurse  predicted.     And  the  spot 
Of  her  infernal  baptism  burns  my  brain 
Till  reason  shudders  !     Down,  upon  your  knees  ! 
Ay,  shake  them  harder,  and  perchance  they  '11  wake. 
Keep  still  !     Kneel,  kneel !    You  fear  them  ?    I  shall 

prowl 
About  these  bodies  till  the  day  of  doom. 

Mai.    What  hast  thou  done  ? 

GUI.  Francesca  I  —  0  !  my  child  ! 

Lan.    Can  howling  make  this  sight  more  terrible  ? 
Peace  !     You  disturb  the  angels  up  in  heaven, 
While  they  are  hiding  from  this  ugly  earth. 
Be  satisfied  with  what  you  see.     You  two 
Began  this  tragedy,  I  finished  it. 
Here,  by  these  bodies,  let  us  reckon  up 
Our  crimes  together.     Why,  how  still  they  lie  ! 
A  moment  since,  they  walked,  and  talked,  arid  kissed  ! 


474  FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

Defied  me  to  my  face,  dishonored  me  ! 
They  had  the  power  to  do  it  then  ;  but  now, 
Poor  souls,  who  711  shield  them  in  eternity  ? 
Father,  the  honor  of  our  house  is  safe  : 
I  have  the  secret.     I  will  to  the  wars, 
And  do  more  murders,  to  eclipse  this  one. 
Back  to  the  battles  ;  there  I  breathe  in  peace  ; 
And  I  will  take  a  soldier's  honor  back.  — 
Honor  !  what 's  that  to  me  now  ?     Ha !  ha  !  ha  ! 

[Laughing.] 

A  great  thing,  father !     I  am  very  ill. 
1  killed  thy  son  for  honor :  thou  mayst  chide. 

0  God !  I  cannot  cheat  myself  with  words  ! 

1  loved  him  more  than  honor  —  more  than  life  — 
This  man,  Paolo  —  this  stark,  bleeding  corpse  ! 
Here  let  me  rest,  till  God  awake  us  all  ! 

[Falls  on  PAOLO'S  body.] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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OCT  17  1911 
JUL  101920 


4   1923 


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7Nov5UP 


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